


Restitution

by terma_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e13 Patient X, Post-Episode: s05e14 The Red and the Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-01
Updated: 2001-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 37,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26535460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Krycek comes back from Russia to pay some debts.
Relationships: Alex Krycek/Fox Mulder
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: TER/MA





	1. Restitution

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> Follows "Patient X"/"The Red and the Black."

Go to notes and disclaimers 

  
**Restitution  
by Cody Nelson**

  
The boy appeared to be about sixteen. No one knew for sure; he hadn't spoken a word since he'd been brought to the hospital. His battered body was long and thin, making barely a lump under the hospital blanket, and there was a weary look in his pale, bruised eyes, at once wary and resigned, as if he knew the world was a bad place but had not quite yet learned to accept its pain. 

Mulder stood at the boy's bedside, staring down at him, fists clenching and unclenching unnoticed at his sides. He'd tried talking to the boy, just as the nurses and doctors had done, and received the same silence. The boy wasn't deaf—he responded to sounds, but he didn't seem to understood what was being said to him, and he made no attempt to communicate. So there was no point trying to question him about what had happened on the bridge—the same bridge where Scully, standing now at Mulder's side studying the boy's chart, had nearly been lost—but he couldn't quite pull himself away just yet. Perhaps it was that sad look in the boy's eyes, that reminded him of another boy, whose world had come crashing down one November night, over twenty-four years ago. 

"His nose is broken." Scully's voice was even, but there was an edge of anger to it. No matter how jaded one got, one never got used to seeing these things happen to children. "And these punctures around his mouth and eyes—he didn't get these on the bridge." 

"It almost looks like...." Mulder couldn't quite bring himself to say it. 

"His eyes and mouth had been sewn shut." Scully, however, said the unspeakable. "According to his chart, there were still sutures in his lips and left eye when he was found with the other survivors. The broken nose and other facial trauma predate the burns by at least a week." She looked up from the chart, her mouth a hard line. "He also hadn't eaten in days." 

Eyes and mouth sewn shut. Mulder's hand reached out for the boy, who shuddered away, fear sparking in his bruised eyes. Mulder let his hand fall. The men on the bridge, who killed with fire, described by Scully as having no faces—eyes and mouths sealed shut by seams of scarred flesh. That image haunted Mulder, too—in the barely-remembered jumble of bright light and guns and the semi trailer of a military transport. There was a connection, a common thread running through it all, but what it was eluded him. 

"There's something else." Scully paused, and Mulder looked down at her. There were still traces of the burns on her own face, reminders of her own experiences on the bridge. They were hard to look at, too. "There were traces of some kind of oily black material in his mouth. It hasn't been identified." 

Mulder remembered another boy, in a small village shack outside a camp in Tunguska, with an empty sleeve where his left arm would have been—extreme measures to save him from the tests with the black oil. "I wonder if the sutures might have been an attempt to protect him from the black oil." 

Scully sighed. "If they were, they didn't appear to work." 

"Does he have an implant?" 

Scully consulted the chart again. "Yes. Same as the others." _Same as herself_ hung unsaid in the air between them. 

Mulder stared at the boy, lying tumbled among the sheets, with his wide pale eyes and thin bruised face. Implants and black oil and men with no faces.... "Who is he?" he said softly, almost to himself. 

Literal Scully looked again at the chart. "He was carrying no ID, no money, bus tickets, anything at all. The clothes he was wearing had no tags in them. He doesn't match any known missing persons reports. They think he might be foreign, but he hasn't responded to any of the other languages they've tried, either—Spanish, French, German. He hasn't said a word, so they can only guess at what he might understand. Or he may simply be too traumatized to speak." 

They needed to know what had happened to this boy. They needed to know who had beaten him and why, who had sewn his eyes and mouth shut, exposed him to the black oil. And how he had ended up here, in a Pennsylvania hospital, survivor of a mass burning, the victim of men with no faces, who just might be alien rebels trying to stop the colonization of the world by alien invasion forces. 

They needed to know, but the boy lay silent in his misery, staring up at them with his pale, wary eyes. 

  
"Mulder?" 

He started. How long had he been standing there, staring at the boy, as if his very need alone could make the boy speak? "Yeah." He sighed. "We might as well leave him alone." 

"What now?" None of the other survivors had been any help. They just couldn't remember what had happened. Any more than Mulder could remember more than scattered images from his experiences at Wiekamp Air Force Base, where, if Krycek were to be believed, an alien rebel was being held. 

"Nothing. Unless this kid decides to talk, or Krycek shows up out of the blue with more...." The boy had flinched, hard, and shrunk away to the other side of the bed. Fear shone on his burned, bruised face. At the mention of Krycek's name. 

"Mulder?" This time, there was an edge of impatience in Scully's voice. 

"Sorry. Let's go." 

  
"Has anyone tried speaking Russian to him?" —The boy knew Krycek and had reason to fear him. And Marita Covarrubias had told him of a similar burn site in Kazakhstan, and said she had someone with her who'd been there. But when he went to meet her, she was gone, and there was black oil on the phone booth. It was another of those intuitive leaps that were the hallmark of his investigative brilliance—that, and his near-perfect memory: countless bits of random knowledge, assembled into whole pictures with only the barest framework to connect them. It was this that had been the source of his nickname "Spooky" back in the FBI Academy—not his belief in UFOs, which had come years later, with his interest in the X-Files. Had this been the boy Marita had spoken of? Had Krycek brought him here from Kazakhstan? 

The boy's doctor shook his head. "Did he say something to you?" 

"No, but I think he might be Russian. Or Kazakh. What do they speak in Kazakhstan?" 

The bewildered doctor shook his head. 

"Well, if the Russian doesn't work, find out and try that. And get a description of him in the paper, see if anyone comes to claim him. And...." Mulder pulled a business card out of his pocket and pressed it into the doctor's hand. "Call me immediately if anyone comes to see him. Immediately." 

  
Krycek. Mulder sat slumped on his couch, just as he'd sat all night the night Krycek had come to him. _If he hurt that boy—_ There was no conclusion to that thought, only angry insistence. _If he hurt that boy...._ Over a year had passed since he'd left him in Tunguska, jumped or fallen from the back of the truck in the woods outside the gulag. Well, Krycek was the one who spoke Russian—he'd be better able to handle himself there than Mulder was, and he made it out of Russia all right. But— _I can beat you with one hand,_ Krycek had told him, and wasn't there an edge of bitterness in that taunt? Krycek's left arm had hung at his side. It had been dark in the apartment, lit only by the streetlights filtering through the blinds, and Mulder had been distracted by other concerns, to say the least. It was not easy to concentrate on someone's unthreatening left hand, when the right hand held a gun to your chest. So he couldn't say for sure—but if Krycek had the use of his left arm, under those circumstances, one surely would have expected him to use it. 

So assume Krycek had lost his arm to those Tunguska rebels, who had almost taken Mulder's arm. You might say he deserved it, after all the pain he'd caused and damage he'd done. But you might also say it was Mulder's fault, who'd dragged him handcuffed halfway around the world, attacked him and drove off with him bouncing around helplessly in the back of a truck. But wasn't it Krycek who'd betrayed him yet again, leaving Mulder to his fate in the gulag while he cozied up with the camp guards? 

Mulder heaved a sigh. No matter. He could make himself crazy worrying at whose fault was whose, after so many years of parry and feint, hidden agendas and lies. If Krycek had lost his arm in Tunguska, he didn't seem inclined to blame Mulder for it. Or at least, not to make an issue of it. He seemed to think there were more important matters at hand than either of their personal grudges. Like alien invasions from space.... 

The laughter bubbled up inside Mulder's throat, strained and humorless. Just when he'd finally been convinced that it was all a lie, and not even Scully's own experiences could make him believe again, along comes Alex Krycek with a gun and a missing arm and a wild story and.... 

A hot mouth on Mulder's cheek. 

Krycek had just been messing with his head. He'd known how badly it would shake Mulder, to be kissed by his worst enemy. Or maybe it truly was some sort of misguided goodwill gesture. A Russian kind of kiss, between men working toward a common goal. _Tovarish,_ Krycek had called him, as he left. _Comrade,_ Mulder knew that meant. Friend, compatriot. He'd spoken in Russian, as if to himself, not knowing whether Mulder would understand, but surely expecting that likely he would not. (But had he known that Mulder's prodigious memory would record the words, as reliably as a tape recorder, and as soon as it was convenient, work out their meaning? And had he known that words spoken thus in Russian would carry more weight than English, easily assumed to be a lie?) 

But the tip Krycek had given him—the lead to Wiekamp Air Force Base—there was something to that, even if Mulder couldn't put it all together into a coherent whole. And even that was evidence—lost time, bright lights, disrupted memories—something had happened to him in that semi trailer that was no ordinary military action. A man with no face. It was just one disconnected image, but it was strong and real, and combined with the other flashes of imagery, it was enough. Krycek had been telling the truth. 

And Mulder didn't know how to deal with that. Every night since Krycek had come, Mulder had sat on his couch in just the same way, for long hours into the night, unmoving except for the clenching and unclenching of his fists, replaying the sequence of events in his mind. He was no longer even sure what he was trying to learn from what had happened—no matter how he worried at it, no further understanding was forthcoming; no easing of the sharp, hot pain that the memory of Krycek's presence brought him; no relaxation of the tension in his mind. It was as if it had become ritual; compulsion. He sat and thought about Krycek because he had to. Just as he had to eat and breathe. 

  
It was near midnight when Mulder's phone rang. It was the boy's doctor. A man had come, whose name, he'd said, was Tolstoy. He was in with the boy now. 

Mulder was out the door almost before he'd hung up the phone. 

  
And there was Krycek, sitting on the side of the boy's bed, talking to him quietly but urgently in Russian. _Don't you dare hurt him,_ was Mulder's immediate thought, and he was almost through the hospital room door with his gun in Krycek's back before he stopped himself. The boy didn't look frightened; he lay on his side staring intently into Krycek's face, his wide eyes unblinking. Now and then he answered softly: "Da." He was talking at last, with someone he didn't seem to find a threat. It would only frighten him needlessly to march in and take Krycek away at gunpoint. 

So Mulder stood in the doorway and waited. Presently, Krycek turned and shot a wry smile at Mulder over his shoulder. Then he turned his attention back to the boy, reaching out to gently touch the boy's arm. 

Mulder flinched; the boy didn't. 

  
He waited until the conversation ended, watching in uncomfortable fascination. Oh, yes, Krycek could be gentle. Mulder knew that. He knew that tone of voice: _How'd you sleep? Sure you don't want something to eat? Come on, I'll drive you home._ He wanted to take the boy by the shoulders and insist, _Don't ever trust him. He'll stab you in the back._ If he could speak any language the boy would understand, he might have even done it. But there was nothing he could say to the boy, nothing he could do now that wouldn't just frighten him more. If Krycek could ease his suffering, let him do it. Tomorrow, though, he'd make sure another translator talked to the boy. Just to make sure. 

At last Krycek stood, patting the boy reassuringly on his arm, then leaning down to kiss the boy's cheek. 

Mulder stiffened, feeling the heat streak through his face. _You murdering bastard. Leave him alone._ He couldn't say why it made him so furious. Or why he felt ashamed. 

He swallowed it down, nodding shortly to Krycek as he came to the door. They started down the hall together. "What did you say to him, Tolstoy?" 

Krycek watched the floor in front of him as he walked. His right hand was jammed into his jacket pocket; his left arm hung at his side. He took a deep breath. "Let's go somewhere and talk." 

  
There was an all-night diner a couple of blocks from the hospital. Krycek ordered apple pie and ate like a starving man, while Mulder nursed a cup of coffee and waited. He'd always eaten like that, Mulder remembered—as though he never knew where his next meal was coming from. Mulder used to tease him about it, just to watch him blush. Now, it made Mulder's face hot. He held his coffee cup tightly in his hands. Finally Krycek laid down his fork and leaned back in the booth. 

"What did you say to him?" 

"His name is Dmitri," Krycek said slowly, staring into his coffee cup. "We found him in Kazakhstan. The only survivor of a mass burning, just like the one on the bridge. And the one on Skyland Mountain. I needed him. It wasn't his fault." 

He cleared his throat, and looked up at Mulder. "I told him I was sorry. That I hadn't wanted to hurt him, that there were reasons I had to do what I did. But it's over now. His part in it, anyway. I told him he's safe now, that no one will hurt him any more. I told him I'd protect him, and help him get home." 

"And he believed you?" 

Krycek shrugged, smiling faintly. "I've never lied to him." 

"You're going to take him back to Kazakhstan?" 

"I don't know. He's Russian, not Kazakh. Russians aren't very popular in Kazakhstan these days. His family's dead. He might be better off somewhere else." 

"Like?" 

Krycek smiled again, brief and sad. "He has relatives in Russia. He doesn't know if they'd take him. And I'm not very popular in Russia these days. But we'll figure something out." 

"We can take care of him," Mulder said. "The State Department will make sure he's taken care of." 

"No." Krycek said flatly. "I'll take care of him." 

Mulder sipped his coffee. He barely wanted to ask the next question, but it had to be asked. "You did that to him, didn't you? Beat him up, infected him with the black oil. Sewed his...." He couldn't get the words out. 

"Yes." His face was calm, his dark eyes cool. But his hand trembled on his coffee cup. "He doesn't remember much of it, after the black oil. That's a blessing." His chin jutted out defiantly. "It was rough on him, but he'll be fine. He's young and tough. The worst thing for him is losing his family. The rest of it he'll get over. He's already getting over it." 

"You're the only person he can talk to right now. He's lost and alone in a foreign country, and you're the only familiar face he sees. As soon as we find someone else who can speak Russian to him, you might find he's not so eager to put his life in your hands again." 

The thick dark eyelashes came down over Krycek's eyes ever so slightly: a protective gesture, warding away pain. "Maybe. —They told me he was dead, you know. Maybe they really thought so, or maybe they were just trying to make me think I'd lost my bargaining chip. They may well intend for him to end up that way. Or they may have other plans for him. I'm not going to let that happen, regardless of what he thinks of me. He's just a kid, and he's been through enough. I'm going to see him safely home, outside of any official channels they might be able to follow to go after him." 

Krycek looked directly into Mulder's eyes, as intent as he'd ever been. "Will you help me?" 

  
Mulder lay on his couch, arms tucked across his chest, staring at the ceiling. He'd changed into sweat pants and a tee shirt when he'd gotten home, in a vain attempt to kid himself that he might actually get some sleep, but he lay painfully awake, just as he'd known he would, while the thoughts whirled around in his head like leaves in a storm. _I'll think about it,_ was all he'd been able to say. Although thinking seemed hardly an option for him, at least where Alex Krycek was concerned. And he'd watched Krycek walk away again, with no attempt to arrest him. He'd felt paralyzed, helpless and stupid, too full of conflicting needs and desires to act on any of them. 

And if Krycek felt the need to make amends for some of his crimes, should Mulder try to interfere? Or, forgetting about Krycek for a moment, was it true that the boy, Dmitri, was in danger from the Consortium? If that were so, then for the boy's sake, if no one else's, it would be better to help Krycek slip the boy quietly out of the country, with no official government involvement. And deal with Krycek later. He wasn't going far, not while Dmitri was still in the hospital. Mulder found that he believed Krycek that far: he cared about the boy, and was determined to help and protect him. Maybe it was only a guilty conscience, but at least that meant he had a conscience. So Mulder could afford to let the matter rest, for the moment, to give himself time to consider what to do, to try to get his roiling thoughts under control. 

  
In the morning, Mulder and Scully went back to the hospital, this time with a Russian interpreter in tow. The boy lay still in his hospital bed, thin body barely rumpling the blanket, IV dripping liquid into his left arm, wide eyes blinking up at them. He spoke slowly, hesitantly, as if measuring each word before letting it go. His memories were a jumble of fire and death, pain and fear. He'd gone to the site in Kazakhstan with his parents, and had been playing in the woods with another boy when the bright lights came. They'd run back to find everything in flames. His parents' car was a fireball. Everyone was dead. He remembered running and running through the woods, and the soldiers the next morning. He couldn't remember coming to America, or the second burn site on the bridge. Or he wouldn't speak of them. Yes, he'd been beaten—by soldiers, he thought. It was dark and he couldn't see their faces. There was something about an experiment, and a big dark room and a table covered with chickenwire and something black that fell from the ceiling. There was a ship, and lots of water, but for some reason he was still very thirsty. 

But everything was all right now. His cousin had come for him, and would make sure everything was all right. 

  
"Krycek just wants to get the kid home." Mulder sat perched on the edge of his desk, arms folded across his chest, trying to keep the defensive tone out of his voice. 

"And you believed him?" Scully's tone said plainly that she did not. 

"Dmitri does." The boy had insisted that it had been "soldiers" who'd beaten and experimented on him, and that Krycek was his cousin. And with no identification to prove otherwise and no one else to claim him, it seemed that the story would hold—as long as Mulder and Scully were willing to go along. 

"I'm sure Krycek was very persuasive. He seems to have that effect on people." There was just enough sharpness in her tone to make it an accusation. 

Mulder felt his face grow hot. "He was just a kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now that it's all over, why shouldn't Krycek want to help him?" 

"How can you be so sure it's all over?" 

She was angry. She always seemed to be angry with him lately. He'd screwed up big time, and he wasn't even sure what he'd done. He supposed he should ask; but then, in his experience, asking people why they were angry with him just gave them the opportunity to find more reasons. His shoulders slumped. "I can't be sure of anything. But I believed him." 

Scully pursed her lips and regarded him thoughtfully for a few moments. "Did Krycek ever tell you why he did what he did to the boy?" 

"He said he had reasons. Beyond that, I didn't ask. I didn't think I was ready to hear about it." 

"Mulder... did you ever stop to consider that you're not really rational when it comes to Krycek?" 

His weak exhalation of breath was half laugh, half groan. "I think about it every day. But he did try to help me. And he seems sincere about wanting to help Dmitri. I think we should give him the chance." 

Scully just frowned at him. 

  
There was other work to be done, and Mulder tried to turn his attention to it. But there was Scully, with her expression tight and every comment an accusation, and he didn't want to think about that. And there was Dmitri in his hospital bed, heartbreakingly damaged, clinging to the man who'd beaten him with the pure intensity of the innocent, and Mulder couldn't get him out of his mind. And there was Krycek, who'd broken into Mulder's apartment and shoved a gun in his face, and tried to make him believe things he'd already made up his mind not to believe, and kissed his cheek as though they were no longer enemies, as though somehow he wanted to make amends. And it made Mulder angry to think of all these things: Scully angry, Dmitri forgiving, Krycek—Krycek alive and tangled up in Mulder's life again. 

_I'll be in touch,_ was all Krycek had said when he'd left the diner last night. Mulder had no idea where he was staying, or under what name, so it was useless trying to get in contact with him. He wanted Mulder's help, though, so he'd be back, but Mulder chafed over not knowing when or where. The only acceptable way to have Krycek around was to have him under control—in handcuffs, preferably, or at least in sight and doing what he was told. But Krycek could somehow never be controlled—like quicksilver he slipped through your fingers, like a force of nature, no matter what you did you turned around and he was gone, only to reappear three months later, six months, a year, bloodied but unbroken, to turn your life upside-down again. It was maddening. It was completely unacceptable. And it was unacceptable that he should take a young boy, beat him and infect him with unspeakable organisms, sew his eyes and mouth shut, and then sit down and tell that boy he was sorry and he didn't mean to do it and be forgiven, just as though anything he'd done were forgivable. And most of all it was unacceptable that he should enlist Mulder's aid in stealing that boy away and sneaking out of the country with him, and that Mulder should feel obligated to do it. 

It was all unacceptable, and Mulder stalked around his office avoiding Scully's angry eyes and pretending to work until he couldn't stand it any longer, and then he told her he was going back to the hospital to talk to Dmitri again, and grabbed his jacket and left. 

  
Mulder paused a moment at the door to the boy's hospital room, not entirely sure what he was doing there. He hadn't brought an interpreter with him, and so couldn't ask any more questions, even if he had any to ask. Still, for some reason, he felt irresistibly drawn here, as if this small, bruised Russian boy could somehow give him the answers he needed. 

The boy lay still, staring out the window. Why was he always so still? A boy that age should be a whirlwind of energy. Of course, not necessarily when he was recuperating from first- and second-degree burns all over his body, a severe beating, and infection by an alien substance. Did he look depressed? Perhaps he was just bored. 

Dmitri turned and saw Mulder in the doorway. For a moment, his face brightened; then just as quickly fell. Probably wishing it was Krycek, Mulder thought, as he walked into the room. Or at least someone who spoke Russian. The boy watched big-eyed and silent as Mulder took the chair by his bed, then offered a tentative smile. 

Mulder smiled back. Poor kid, he must be terribly lonely. So lonely he had to lie here and hope for Krycek to come. "Hi, Dmitri." 

"A—Agent Mulder." The boy's soft accent and slight stutter made an exotic sound of Mulder's name. Mulder was impressed that the boy remembered. Not that he had a whole lot else to think about. 

And that was pretty much the extent of their available conversation. Mulder tried a slightly bigger smile, and said, "I know we can't really talk. I'm just going to sit with you for a while, all right?" 

The boy nodded earnestly, just as if he'd understood what Mulder said. Well, he could hear the tone of the words, at least. And he really did seem pleased to have Mulder's company. Mulder once again felt sorry for him: no one to talk to, nothing to do—he couldn't understand the television; there were no books or magazines he could read. Only one dry FBI agent who could do nothing but sit here and nod at him. 

Only now did it occur to him that he should have brought something for the boy. Should he go back to the gift shop now? And what would they have for a sixteen-year-old Russian boy? 

Mulder dug in his pockets. What did he have for a sixteen-year-old Russian boy? A dime-store pen? A business card? Wait—what about that keychain he'd bought at Heuvelmans Lake with a picture of Big Blue, the legendary sea serpent, on it? It was cheap and tacky, but it was the best he could do. Mulder retrieved the keychain and worked the keys off of it, sliding them loose back into his pocket, and hoping he didn't lose any of them before he could get a new one (would they have any in the gift shop? With cheerful kittens and puppies on them, perhaps). He pressed the keychain into Dmitri's hand. 

Too late, it occurred to him that perhaps a souvenir of a man-eating sea monster was not the ideal present for a child who'd been assaulted by aliens. But Dmitri grinned happily over it, and rattled off several sentences in Russian, among which Mulder assumed were thanks. He held the keychain out to Mulder, pointing at the picture, his eyebrows raised in question. 

"Big Blue," Mulder said carefully. "Big Blue." 

Dmitri furrowed his brow. "Big. Blue." 

"That's right," Mulder nodded, thinking, _The first words of English this kid learns, and it's the name of a nonexistent sea monster._

"Big Blue," Dmitri repeated to himself, gripping the keychain as if it were precious metal. 

  
Mulder sat with Dmitri for another hour, sometimes in one-sided conversation, sometimes in companionable silence. He left when Dmitri had begun to yawn repeatedly, exhausted but determined not to nap while he had company. The boy was asleep before Mulder reached the door, keychain still clutched tightly in his hand. 

  
Halfway back to the office, Mulder changed his mind and headed home instead. It was still early, but he wasn't quite ready to face Scully again yet. She'd ask him if he'd found out anything at the hospital, and he'd say no, and eventually he'd end up telling her that he hadn't even brought an interpreter with him, and all he'd ended up doing was giving away his keychain. She'd think he'd wasted the entire afternoon. And probably he had, but he felt a little better about the whole situation anyway. It was good to see the boy recovering from his injuries and in good spirits. Mulder couldn't really tell, of course, without being able to talk to Dmitri, but he didn't see any signs that the boy was frightened or in any way being coerced by Krycek. Krycek might be a liar and a murderer, but he'd convinced the boy he was his protector, and as long as he never did anything to make the boy think otherwise, that was just fine with Mulder. 

Occasionally, he liked to say that he was cursed with a photographic memory. At times, he felt that it truly was a curse. Like now, as he entered the front door of his apartment, and his eye was uncontrollably drawn to that exact spot on the floor where the square of white paper had lain, the night Krycek had come to tell him that aliens were invading the world. _Things are looking up,_ had been written on the paper, and as he'd bent to pick it up, Krycek had jumped him from behind and shoved him into the floor across the room by the desk. Mulder tried not to look at that spot in the floor; tried not to think about what had happened that night. But the image was burned indelibly into his mind; he saw that small square of paper lying there still, every time he walked into his apartment. 

And there was where he'd lain on the floor in the dark, with Krycek bending over him, gun muzzle pressing into Mulder's chest. _You must be losing it, Mulder. I can beat you with one hand._

_Isn't that how you like to beat yourself?_ Mulder's face burned as he remembered the foolish comeback that had popped out of his mouth. Whatever had possessed him to respond to a life-threatening situation with his worst enemy with lame cracks about masturbation? The gun muzzle had poked roughly into his chest. Mulder had felt his heart pounding back, as if straining to meet it. His hands and feet had tingled and gone numb, and there had been a faint buzzing sound in his ears. When he'd opened his mouth to speak, the unbidden image of the gun muzzle sliding into it had risen, threatening to choke him. Sweat had dripped into his eyes. _If those are going to be my last words, I can do better._

_I'm not here to kill you, Mulder. I'm here to help you._

Lies. Lies. But then Krycek had handed over his gun and walked away, leaving behind the small square of paper with the name of an Air Force base written on the back. An Air Force base where an alien was being held; where Mulder had seen... bright lights and a man with no face and other things he couldn't remember, but which had given Mulder his faith back. 

And—Krycek had ordered him to sit up, then, with surprising grace for a one-armed man, had leaned over and pressed his mouth to Mulder's cheek. It was shock, Mulder was sure, that had caused him to start, and not some perverse impulse to turn his head toward Krycek's and capture that kiss on his mouth. It was adrenaline that had caused that spark to race through his body like an electric current. It was the heightened sensitivity of fear that had made those lips burn into his cheek, and left him feeling as spent and helpless as if Krycek's bullet had indeed pierced his heart and left him bleeding on the floor. 

  
With an exasperated groan, Mulder turned on his heel and strode angrily to the stereo, turning the radio on and cranking up the volume. He was home early; he'd make use of the time and clean his apartment. Maybe if he scrubbed hard enough, he'd be able to wipe the memory of Krycek's presence away. 

  
He'd finished the front room and the kitchen and was in the bedroom pulling the sheets from the bed when he turned to find Alex Krycek standing in the doorway. Grimacing angrily, he dropped the sheets onto the floor. 

"I did knock," Krycek said, before Mulder had the chance to ask the question. "You didn't answer. And I wasn't about to stand in the hallway pounding on your door." The radio still blared. 

"Come on in," Mulder muttered. "Everyone else does." He really should change his locks. Not that it would do any good. 

"Need a hand with that?" Krycek indicated the pile of fresh sheets on the chair by the bed. 

"No." Krycek helping him to make his bed? God, no. Mulder felt his face grow hot. "Look, would you get out of here? Go wait in the other room." 

Krycek shrugged. "Sure." 

  
Mulder stood staring at the empty doorway, breath coming in shallow gasps. His hand shook as he bent to pick up the sheets he'd let fall. God. Krycek in his bedroom. He'd never sleep in his bed again. Hurriedly, he gathered up the dirty sheets, and jammed them into a ball at the foot of the bed. Then he began to spread the clean sheets over the mattress. Of all the times for Krycek to show up—at least he hadn't made any cracks about Mulder doing housework. _You're the who makes smart remarks about everything,_ Mulder reminded himself. _Not him. Anyway, he wants your help. He'll be good._ And Mulder had promised he'd think about helping him. Well, he'd thought about it endlessly, and come to no good conclusions. Now he had to go out there and try to talk rationally with him. He'd rather just crawl into this freshly-made bed and pull the covers over his head. 

Krycek was standing by the end of the couch, staring at the framed print of a typewriter on the wall. He turned to greet Mulder with a tentative smile. "Nice picture." 

"Thanks." It had been a gift from Mulder's mother. He wasn't about to tell Krycek that he hadn't had the heart to tell her he found it only marginally more interesting than bare wall. But since he'd never gotten around to buying anything he actually liked, he left it up. 

"Well." Krycek turned towards Mulder, folding his arms across his chest. Fascinating, the way he casually slipped his hand under his left arm and pulled it up, tucking the hand under his elbow. If you weren't watching for it, you might not even notice the left arm was a prosthetic. "Dmitri liked the keychain." 

"You were at the hospital today?" 

"I just came from there. He said you were there for a couple of hours. Thanks." 

"I didn't do it for you. And if I decide to help you get him out of the country, I won't be doing that for you, either." 

Krycek shook his head, a slight smile curling his mouth. (Soft, round mouth. Mulder looked away.) "I never expected you to, Mulder. So, have you thought about it?" 

Mulder didn't know how to answer that. "Do you want coffee?" Ridiculous, offering the man coffee. But he had to have something to do, before he began to scream. 

"Sure." Krycek looked like he needed coffee. He looked like he needed sleep, actually. His face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. He shoved his right hand into his jacket pocket and followed Mulder into the kitchen, leaving his left arm to hang at his side. He'd been busy the past few days. Where had he slept, if he'd slept at all? 

Mulder shook his head and busied himself with the coffee pot. "Is the boy really in danger?" 

"I don't know. Truthfully, I hope he isn't. But I'm not taking any chances." 

"What exactly is it that you want me to do?" It made it a little easier, being able to busy himself with the coffee. He didn't quite want to smash Krycek's face in, or throw him up against the wall and demand to know why he did it. 

"As much as you're willing to do. Don't tell them I'm not really Dmitri's cousin, for one thing. Keep him out of your reports." 

Mulder nodded. "And...?" 

"I'm trying to arrange some ID for both of us. Transport to Russia. I can manage that if I have to, but I wouldn't mind some help." Krycek leaned against the counter, eyeing the coffeepot as if expecting gold from it. 

"You mean money." 

A slight shrug. The prosthetic arm swung at his side, a dead weight. "Among other things." He laughed, a short humorless noise. "He took everything before he let me go. Trying to keep me on a short leash. I don't even have a change of underwear." 

Definitely not something Mulder wanted to know. "What about a place to stay?" 

"I'm fine." 

"When was the last time you slept?" 

"I went to see Titanic this afternoon. I had a nice nap." 

Mulder swore to himself. Repeatedly. "You can't afford a room at the YMCA or something?" 

"I don't want a room. I need to keep moving." 

"Fine." Mulder suddenly remembered Los Angeles, the summer of the fires, when Scully was gone, and he went long days on nothing but catnaps, refusing to check into a hotel. Because Scully was gone, and there was nothing he could do but keep moving, because stopping would mean seeing the emptiness that was there. He understood the need to keep moving. 

So what was it that was keeping Krycek moving? Was he worried about the boy? Consumed with guilt? But if he cared so much, how could he have done the things he did in the first place? "Why did you do it?" 

"Do what?" 

"What you did to Dmitri." 

Krycek looked away, grim and silent. His eyes narrowed and his mouth trembled, then pressed firmly shut. Pain twitched across his face, was determinedly rejected, then washed back again, stronger than his stoicism. Mulder stood and watched him, fascinated, even pleased. Time seemed to telescope down, till there was nothing but Mulder's kitchen, the coffee perking gently in its pot, and Mulder's enemy, struggling with a great pain. It was soothing, somehow, even comforting, to watch Krycek suffering, to know that the things he did had consequences for him. Mulder had punished Krycek before—handcuffed him and beat him, but it had never truly satisfied. Not like this. Krycek had refused to be brought down by it; he'd absorbed Mulder's abuse and given nothing back. If only he'd suffered like this.... 

The coffeepot fell silent. Krycek looked at it expectantly; the spell was broken. Mulder got mugs from the cupboard and poured coffee into them. Krycek liked sugar in his coffee, Mulder remembered, and pulled the box of sugar down before he had time to think about it. Then stopped, suddenly, flustered and a little angry. Krycek reached for the sugar, all the time watching Mulder warily, as if expecting him to snatch it away. 

God, Mulder thought. Had things become so hopelessly complicated between them that even a cup of coffee became a test? Exasperated, he jerked the silverware drawer open, and slammed a spoon down on the counter. 

Krycek grinned crookedly as he picked up the spoon to stir his coffee. But his bravado was betrayed by the tightness at the corners of his mouth and the liquid pain in his eyes. 

  
They returned to the living room. Mulder sprawled into the middle of his leather couch, arms spread along the back, claiming it as his territory. Krycek pulled out the desk chair and sat with a little whoosh, as if his knees couldn't quite wait for his haunches to hit the chair before giving out. Pure exhaustion, Mulder thought. He'd lose his concentration soon and make a mistake that could be fatal. Which would be only just—except for Dmitri. 

"Why did you do it?" he asked again. He didn't even care if Krycek answered; he just wanted to see that pain again. 

But several sips of strong, sweet coffee and a chair to sit in had given him back his composure. This time, Krycek stared off into the middle distance with the trace of a sad smile, and began to speak softly. 

"He was my Trojan Horse. I told them he had information about the burn site in Kazakhstan—important information that no one else knew. And he did, at least until the same thing happened at Skyland Mountain and Ruskin Dam. But really, that was just to get him alone with them. They'd be horrified by the way I'd treated him, of course, and they'd rush to get the stitches out before they stopped to think why those stitches might be there. And the black oil would come rushing out—it wouldn't have affected Dmitri, because he'd had the vaccination—same as you did, Mulder, which is why it didn't hurt you—and one or more of them would be infected. If it got to enough of them, it could ruin them. Or at the very least put a very large monkey wrench into their plans." 

Mulder nodded slowly. A desperate plan, and by no means a foolproof one. But the payoff would have been worth the risk. To him. "What about Dmitri? What would have happened to him?" 

That shadow of pain was back in Krycek's face. "I hoped to be able to recover him afterwards. But if I couldn't... I thought the stakes were high enough that the sacrifice was worth it." He finally looked Mulder in the eye, grim and defiant. "I didn't like doing it." His gaze broke, and he stared into the distance again. "I've had to do a lot of things I didn't like. And sometimes it wasn't worth the price I had to pay. But this time... poor Dmitri was forfeit the minute he survived that holocaust. At least with me he had a chance." 

It was horrifyingly believable. And Krycek's regret, too, spilling reluctantly out of him, was sweet balm to Mulder's anger. But where did a broken nose fit into this seductive tale? 

"Then why did you beat him?" 

Krycek gave a slight shake of his head. "I had to know what he knew. I had to get him to talk to me, but he was afraid of the soldiers, and of me, and he tried to run away, and he lied pathetically about everything. I had to find out what he saw, and I couldn't afford the time it would have taken to be kind and win his trust. It wouldn't have been any favor to him, anyway, considering what came after." 

"So you beat him." Mulder found that he was angry again. _I had to know, and so I beat him._ Then he put on that pretty look of repressed pain, and said that he was sorry, and expected his crimes to be justified. Sometimes sorry wasn't enough. Sometimes it wasn't anything at all. 

Krycek looked at him dully, as if he knew what Mulder was thinking, and had suddenly given up trying to explain. "Yeah." 

And the boy forgave him. How could he forgive it—the terror, the pain, the assault? "It's Stockholm Syndrome, you know." 

The dull look disappeared, to be replaced by wariness. "What?" 

"The boy. Dmitri. You've terrorized him into depending on you, and now he'll do anything to please you, to keep you from hurting him again. It's fear, not forgiveness." 

Krycek shrugged. Something in his face hardened. "It really bothers you, doesn't it? The idea that anyone could forgive me." 

Mulder found himself leaning forward on the couch, hands clenching into fists. "He's a scared kid." 

"Or maybe he's just more forgiving than some people." 

Mulder was on his feet, and had taken two steps towards Krycek before he could stop himself. "Some people you never bothered to ask for forgiveness." 

Krycek had also jumped to his feet, into a fighter's stance, hard and ready. But his voice, when he spoke, was quiet and intense and full of sharp little needles. "Would it have done any good?" 

Mulder closed the distance between them, and stood eye to eye with him, staring hard, as if the force of his gaze could give him the answers he wanted. But Krycek gave him nothing, as always. Only his presence, so close, that filled Mulder with a terrible need, that he had no idea how to satisfy. Mulder forced a deep breath, and then another, and then a harsh smile. He whispered, "Try me." 

Breathing hard, Krycek tried to step back, but his foot hit the chair behind him and he stopped, huge eyes glittering. His tongue came out and licked his lower lip, leaving it shiny. For a moment, he was open wide, and the pain rushed out of him, and flowed over Mulder like an offering. Then it was gone, and his only response was a slow shake of the head. 

No! It was unacceptable. He couldn't be allowed to get away with it. He had to pay—for what he did to Mulder, or for what he did to Dmitri, or for something, but he had to pay. Mulder's hand swiped out and caught Krycek by the back of the neck, pulling him close, and Mulder's mouth came down hard on Krycek's. 

They both froze for an instant, Mulder just as shocked as Krycek by what he'd done. But only for an instant. Mulder felt a blaze erupt in him, a horrible satisfaction that made him feel huge and powerful and almost unbearably good. He pulled Krycek closer, pressed his mouth harder, forcing Krycek's mouth open and pushing his tongue inside. Krycek's soft lips stretched wide. Inside he was hot and sweet. Mulder wrapped his arm around Krycek's back and pressed his thigh between his legs. Strong, muscular legs, now straining to keep their balance as Mulder kept pushing forward. 

It was dizzyingly good. Gasping for breath, Mulder broke the kiss, grinning terribly, intoxicated by the sight of Krycek's lips, wet from Mulder's mouth, and the hazy look in his eyes. God, it was sweet. Unthinking, his fist drew back to strike— 

Krycek at once pushed forward, forcing Mulder back, then turned and rolled out of Mulder's grasp and away. 

They stood staring at each other. Mulder's sense of overwhelming power burst and dissipated, like a punctured balloon, leaving him shaking and horrified. Krycek looked no better. He was red-faced and breathing harshly. His mouth worked, but no words came out. Then he shook his head and turned towards the door. 

It couldn't be left like this. Mulder struggled for words, but none came. His feet felt rooted to the floor. And he could do nothing, nothing at all, while Krycek slipped away without looking back, closing the door quietly behind him. 

  
Mulder's hand shook as he shaved the next morning. Too many sleepless nights, sitting on his couch until sheer exhaustion took him, dozing a few hours in his clothes before getting up to go through it all over again. Last night had been no different. Krycek had been here and then he was gone. Mulder got nothing from him but aggravation and lies. Another kiss that meant nothing, just more power games and maneuvering between them. It was no different. Except that the feel of Krycek's plush lips were on his mouth now, not just on his cheek. Except that he'd shoved his tongue down Krycek's throat—hard to call that a comradely Russian kiss. And if he hadn't gone ballistic and lifted his arm to strike, who knew how far he would have gone? Or how far Krycek would have let him go? Or why? More questions; that was all Krycek brought, or ever brought. More questions and confusion and sleepless nights. 

And now Krycek was gone again. Would he come back this time, after what had happened? Or was he gone for another six months, another year, until the next time he showed up out of nowhere, to disrupt Mulder's life and his sleep one more time? 

The razor slipped, and Mulder jerked his hand away, swearing. Two small drops of blood welled along his cheek. He put the razor down and closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He couldn't let Krycek do this to him. It would be just as well if he didn't come back. Then maybe Mulder could forget, wipe the memory out of his mind, at least until the next time.... 

  
He managed to avoid Scully for most of the morning by burying himself in the Bureau's endless files, digging up obscure records only marginally related to the case they were working on. But his head ached from the lack of sleep, and his eyes kept wanting to cross, and even if he had stumbled across anything useful he'd have been too fuzzy-headed to recognize it. So eventually he sighed, and sneezed in the dust, and went back to his office. He paused at the door, fingering the lock, then shook his head in self-disgust and left the door unlocked. It was ridiculous to hide from her—she was his best friend, his only friend, the only one who understood anything, even if she was feeling irritated with him these days for some reason. Hell, he was irritated with himself—no reason Scully should be any different. And he'd only alienate her further by running away from her. Besides, locking the door would be a useless gesture—if she came down here and found the door locked, she'd knock, and he'd have to let her in, and then he'd have to try to explain why he'd locked the door, and he'd only end up making things worse. Better just to accept the inevitable. 

  
He was on his fourth cup of coffee when Scully tapped at his door and poked her head in. The caffeine had made him jittery and sent his scattered thoughts racing uselessly around his head, but hadn't made a dent in the searing exhaustion that wrung out his senses. He jumped at her knock, nearly upset his cup, and swore to himself as he gestured her in, feeling his shoulders tense, angry with himself for letting things get so strained. She stood before his desk, watching him, worrying at her lower lip. 

She looked tired, too, he thought. The burns on her face stood out sharply against her pale skin, and there were violet smudges under her eyes. How long had she been like this? Had it been days, and he just hadn't noticed? She was always so calm, so controlled—it was too easy to assume that everything was all right with her, that none of this affected her as it did him, but of course that was selfish and absurd. She was the one who'd been abducted, experimented on, implanted, made sterile, her sister murdered, given cancer, nearly led to her death in a fiery holocaust. All because of him, and his pointless quest. If he really allowed himself to stop and think about it, he'd drown in guilt. 

"Hey, Scully." He could hear how tentative and awkward he sounded. "You look tired." 

"So do you. Did you find out anything more from Dmitri?" She continued to stand in front of his desk, arms crossed. She was hard as stone, an alabaster statue before him. 

He swallowed. "No, not really. I didn't—It wasn't—" He lowered his gaze suddenly, unable to look at her. "I thought I would just stay with him for a little while. He's so alone—" (A lonely teenaged boy, sister lost, no one to talk to—) "I didn't want him to have to think that Krycek was the only person here he could depend on. I didn't want him to be so scared." 

Scully's voice softened. "That was probably a good idea." He looked up at her again. She wasn't smiling, but she was no longer made of stone, either. He felt something loosen in his chest. "And what about Krycek? Have you seen him again?" 

He hoped she couldn't see his face growing hot. "Yeah, he came by my apartment last night. We talked. He told me he'd been planning to use Dmitri as a kind of Trojan horse, to expose his enemies to the black oil. Dmitri was safe from it, because he'd been vaccinated. He hoped to be able to recover the boy afterwards, and send him safely home." 

Clearly, she was not appeased. Mulder didn't know that he was, either. The stakes were high, no doubt of that—if Krycek had been telling the truth, or believed that he was telling the truth, the entire human race was in danger. Was it justified for him to use and torture one teenaged boy, if the future of humanity was at stake? Mulder didn't know, and he didn't want to know—what if some day someone told him that Samantha's sacrifice had been necessary for the survival of the human race? His own pain and suffering, and Scully's? His father's death? He wasn't ready to face those questions yet. 

"Then what happened? How did Dmitri end up on the bridge?" 

Mulder felt his face blaze again. That was part of the conversation they hadn't gotten to. "I think someone stole Dmitri away from him before he got the chance to make the trade." Marita. "But then the black oil got to whoever it was, and the boy got away. He had the implant; he was called to the site in Pennsylvania, just like he was to the one in Kazakhstan." He hadn't heard from Marita since her phone call telling him she had someone from the Kazakhstan site. Her office said she'd been called away. Was she dead, a victim of the black oil? 

Scully shook her head in amazement. "He survived two of the mass burnings, a severe beating, infection by the black oil—it's a miracle he's still alive." 

Mulder nodded. "We have to help him. Even if it means helping Krycek too." 

Scully sighed. "All right, Mulder. What do you want to do?" 

He wasn't prepared for her agreement. He felt his face go red a third time, as he shrugged helplessly. "I don't know." 

  
There wasn't really much they could do—Mulder needed to talk to Krycek again, and he wasn't eager to tell Scully he was not at all sure he would even see Krycek again, after assaulting him last night. But assume that Krycek was desperate enough for help that he'd be back, and that they would manage to keep their hands off each other long enough to make plans. Meanwhile, all they could do was keep an eye on Dmitri and make sure he was safe and comfortable. 

To that end, Mulder headed back to the hospital after work to check in on the boy. 

  
He really shouldn't have been so surprised, Mulder thought. He should have been prepared for the possibility that Krycek might be here with the boy. But the sight still sent his heart into his throat—Krycek sitting on the edge of the boy's bed, all leather and heat and purposeful intensity, trying valiantly to smile while Dmitri tugged at the left sleeve of his leather jacket. Mulder froze in the doorway. It was a private moment; he shouldn't intrude—but he couldn't take his eyes off them: Krycek, holding himself stiff and tightly controlled; Dmitri, with his swollen, bandaged nose and crusted burns and fading bruises, curiosity bright in his pale eyes, talking softly in Russian as he pulled the jacket down off Krycek's shoulder. He wanted to see the prosthetic arm, the stump of the shoulder—and Krycek was allowing it. What had Krycek told him about it? Had he told Dmitri about Tunguska, and the gulag, and the men who cut off their arms to avoid being infected by the black oil? There was a strange sort of symmetry to it: Krycek's amputated arm, Dmitri's oil-invaded body. 

Intent on the boy, Krycek appeared not to notice the intrusion—but Mulder was convinced that Krycek knew he was there, just the same. Krycek hadn't flinched, hadn't sent even the beginning of a glance toward the door; but somehow, Mulder could feel Krycek's awareness of his presence, just as he could feel Krycek's. It was something in the air, heavy and dark and almost sweet, like the tinge of ozone that presages a storm. 

The leather jacket slid down Krycek's left arm. He wore only a short-sleeved white cotton tee-shirt underneath, exposing the smooth flesh-colored plastic of the prosthetic. Dmitri stroked it, handling the jointed elbow and fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration. 

Krycek was holding himself still as death, answering Dmitri's questions in a voice too measured to tremble. Perfectly controlled, Krycek offered his disfigurement to the boy, and it made Mulder unreasonably angry, as just about everything else about Krycek made him angry. It hurt Krycek to let his false arm be exposed, but he let the boy have it, the pain only showing in his unnatural calm. 

Then Dmitri raised his hand to Krycek's shirt sleeve, IV tube trailing from his arm, and began to push the sleeve up. He wanted to see the whole arm, right up to the ruined shoulder, where the prosthetic met flesh. Still motionless, Krycek sucked in air, as if the boy had plunged a knife into him. But when Dmitri blinked at him, he nodded for him to go on, and even shifted to allow the boy easier access to his shoulder. His breathing had quickened, though, and he licked his lips shiny and wet. 

Mulder barely suppressed his own gasp. He felt a flush that seemed to streak through his entire body, leaving him hot and shaky. It was a horribly intimate moment, and Mulder couldn't bear it. Unbidden, the thought streaked across his consciousness: _I'm going to have to fuck him or kill him._ Mulder was shocked by his own thought. But it was as undeniable as the heat in his belly. Dmitri ran his slender fingers along the edge of the prosthetic, sliding his thumb beneath the elastic strap that attached the prosthetic arm to Krycek's body. _Kill him or fuck him._ But he couldn't kill him, not now, with Dmitri and the aliens and the FBI... so that meant he had to fuck him. Fuck him raw, fuck him into the ground, fuck him senseless... Mulder felt the words repeat, almost ringing in his ears, like a mantra, a chant, that somehow eased the terrible roiling in his mind. It was a plan, whether it made sense or not: a way to deal with the unbearable feelings Krycek aroused, and he had to do something or he'd go mad. 

He was sure he could do it. Krycek hadn't resisted Mulder's kiss last night, he'd only broken away when Mulder had turned violent. He hadn't really responded to it, either, but then Mulder hadn't given him much chance to respond. He'd gotten away easily enough, though, when he wanted to. If he'd felt the need to break away from the kiss, he could have done that too. 

Mulder could have done it last night, and everything would have been settled—if only he hadn't lost control and tried to hit him. Now, it was going to be more difficult. Krycek would be wary. He wasn't willing to let himself be abused. So Mulder would have to be careful. Make his move slowly, with no violence or roughness. Maybe even make Krycek believe he'd forgiven him. It didn't matter what he had to do, as long as he got Krycek to drop his pants and bend over. Then maybe, at last, Mulder would find a little peace. 

  
Dmitri smoothed the sleeve back down over Krycek's shoulder, and lay back in the bed, his inspection over. "Hello, Mulder," Krycek murmured softly, not looking up, as he pulled his leather jacket back on. Dmitri looked toward the doorway, a pleased smile spreading across his battered face, and repeated, "Hello, Mulder," in his soft Russian voice. 

Mulder put on a friendly smile, struggling to regain his composure. "Hi, Dmitri." Then he turned to Krycek, letting the smile fade, biting his lip. "We need to talk." 

Krycek nodded, still gazing down at the boy. Was he unwilling to face Mulder, with his arm's naked display still looming large in the room? He put his hand—his flesh and blood hand—on Dmitri's shoulder, and said something that sounded like leave-taking. 

The boy stretched out his arms, and Krycek gathered him up, holding him with his flesh and plastic arms, kissing him briefly but firmly on the lips. Mulder shifted uncomfortably. He told himself it was custom, and purely innocent, but still it made him cringe to watch Krycek kiss this child, his victim. 

Then Krycek stood up from the bed, and Dmitri turned to Mulder, reaching out his arms to him, smiling hopefully. Krycek said something softly, in Russian, and Dmitri's arms fell, and his smile turned to disappointment. 

Krycek started toward the door, but Mulder stepped in front of him with a minute shake of his head. Krycek shrugged and moved to stand by the wall. Probably he was only trying to give Mulder a few moments alone with Dmitri—but he might also decide to take the opportunity to slip away, and Mulder wasn't ready to lose track of him for another night. So Krycek watched while Mulder went to the bed and stood over the boy, who looked up at him with a tentative smile. 

So now what? Shake the boy's hand and take his leave, in the way his restrained New England upbringing had taught him? Dmitri was clearly used to easy physical expressions of affection, and Mulder's distance would seem like a rejection. And there was no way to explain it to him. If Mulder truly wanted to help the boy, he would have to offer him the sort of friendship he would understand. So he put away his own discomfort, and sat down on the bed, bending over the boy to embrace him. 

Dmitri's response was eager and warm. Slender fingers dug into Mulder's upper arms, and a hard little mouth, still cracked and scabbed from sutures and fists and fires, pressed briefly into Mulder's. It was over in a moment, nothing troubling about it. Still, Mulder felt his anger flare again. The boy seemed so thin and fragile, the burns and bruises so heart-wrenching on his face. Mulder wanted to touch them, to stroke them away, but the throbbing pulse in his groin made mockery of his tenderness. It was Krycek's fault—for kissing him, for kissing the boy, for twisting it all up until everything good seemed evil, and evil seemed like the only sensible thing to do. He felt that the boy was being used as a pawn in some sort of horrible game between them, but there were no rules and no sense to it, and no way out. 

Except that he would fuck Krycek, and everything would be all right. The thought was an immediate balm to his troubled mind. He managed to smile at Dmitri, saying, "I'm glad to see you're feeling better. I'll visit you again later." He couldn't quite resist brushing his fingertips across the boy's temple, ever so lightly. Dmitri just beamed at him, uncomprehending. 

Mulder took a deep breath and stood up. Krycek remained by the wall, regarding them with a strange, almost unhappy, expression. Mulder wanted to be angry again—what did he have to be unhappy about? But it was an absurd question, and even Mulder knew it—the plastic left arm under that leather jacket was one obvious answer. 

He nodded to Krycek and headed for the door. Krycek peeled himself from the wall and followed. Did he seem slightly unsteady on his feet? Was it all taking its toll on him, too? He'd been exhausted yesterday, and wasn't likely to have gotten a good night's sleep in the meantime, if he was staying on the move. Good enough, he'd have less energy to resist. 

They walked in silence to the elevator, and remained in silence throughout the ride to the ground floor. Mulder closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the side wall of the elevator, shoulder and forehead pressed against the plastic paneling. He was going to have to get some sleep soon, or he'd just fall over unconscious where he stood. It wasn't until they stepped out onto the sidewalk that Mulder spoke. 

"We'll go to my place." 

Krycek stopped. "Why don't we just go back to that diner?" 

It hadn't occurred to Mulder that he would be wary of returning to Mulder's apartment. This was going to make things more difficult. He had to get Krycek alone somewhere. Well, never mind, say anything, just get him there. 

"Look, about that... last night." He paused, struggling for words. He couldn't quite force himself to say he was sorry. "It won't happen again." 

Krycek looked away, his mouth tight. It hurt him to hear Mulder's attempts at apologies, which Mulder found darkly satisfying. He went on, "Look, I'm tired, I want to go home. Just come, all right?" 

Krycek made a small, exasperated noise. "Yeah, okay." 

Mulder couldn't quite believe how relieved he was. It would happen now, he was sure of it. And everything would be all right. 

  
By the time they reached be apartment, though, Mulder could feel himself crashing hard. The relief of finally having a plan for dealing with Krycek had robbed him of his nervous adrenaline, and the long string of sleepless nights was at last catching up to him. His hands trembled as he fumbled for the key to his door, and he nearly stumbled across the threshold. Ignoring Krycek, he staggered into the living room and fell heavily onto the sofa. 

Krycek stood wavering in the doorway. His eyes were red-rimmed and he was having trouble keeping them open. Sleep. They both needed sleep. 

No help for it, Mulder just managed to think. The body had reached its limit. "Go to bed," he ordered weakly, not caring how his instructions sounded. "I'm going to sleep here. You can take the bed. We'll talk about it...." He could barely keep track of his sentences. "Later." He was already half asleep. Forget about changing clothes, just get a pillow under his head... and he sank inexorably into darkness. 

  
When Mulder woke, daylight had faded to deep night, and he was cold and uncomfortable in his work clothes, half-lying on the couch, his feet still on the floor. But he had slept deeply for what must have been hours, and although he knew it would take more hours before he'd truly made up his sleep deficit, he felt reasonably rested and able to cope. He pushed himself to a sitting position, yawning, shrugging at his coat and loosening his tie. For once, he'd slept without troubling dreams, without constant starts to wakefulness, without Krycek haunting him— 

  
Krycek. Mulder was on his feet before he had time to think. Where was he? Had he gotten away again, to leave Mulder in torment? Damn his exhaustion, he'd almost had him. 

He rushed to the bedroom. Ridiculous to expect Krycek to be here—but there he was, lying sprawled across Mulder's bed in his tee-shirt and jeans, leather jacket crumpled beside him, sound asleep. He lay on his back, face pale in the street light spilling through the unshaded window, prosthetic arm emerging from his shirt sleeve, lying at his side, shiny and lifeless. Mulder stepped into the room, staring down at him, his heart suddenly pounding. Krycek in his bed. So close.... Did he look innocent in his sleep? Mulder couldn't say that he did. Not with a week's stubble, and that plastic arm—or the betrayal that Mulder knew lurked behind that deceptively youthful face. But there was something ethereal about him, lying here in the dark, his round lips slightly parted, long lashes almost unnaturally thick and black against his pale cheeks. Or maybe it was just that, having made the decision to fuck him, he was now seeing Krycek in a new light, measuring his sexual attractiveness, like a wild animal selecting its mate. Krycek was certainly fine specimen, physically, despite the lost arm. Strong and graceful and even pretty. What would he look like naked, lying on his stomach, legs spread for the taking? Mulder took an awkward step, shoe hitting the floor harder than he'd meant it to, and Krycek stirred. 

No threat, Mulder warned himself, forcing a gentle smile. "Hi. Didn't mean to wake you." 

Krycek pushed himself up onto one elbow, blinking. The other arm, the false one, hung from his shoulder like a dead thing. "What time is it?" 

"I don't know. Late. Or early, depending on how you look at it." 

Krycek nodded, as if he'd actually gotten an answer. He yawned, craning his neck down to his side, so that he could rub his eyes with his fingers. "I feel like that's the first sleep I've gotten in years." 

"Me too." Mulder felt his smile coming more easily now, even naturally. Krycek was relaxed, suspecting nothing. Everything was going fine, if only he didn't spook now. Mulder moved toward him and sat on the edge of the bed. 

Krycek shifted, moving his prosthetic arm as if he'd just now noticed it was there, trying to get the elbow under him for more support. He was making no attempt to hide or cover the arm, so Mulder supposed he'd lost his shyness about it that afternoon. Tentatively, Mulder reached across him to touch it, watching for signs of resistance. But Krycek remained calm, even indifferent. Mulder stroked the arm above the jointed elbow. It was just smooth plastic, slightly cool to the touch, nothing more. Could Krycek feel that he was being touched? Did the pressure of Mulder's hand, however light, transmit itself to the flesh above? He ran his hand up the arm, beneath the sleeve, until his fingers met warm skin. He stroked absently for a moment, watching Krycek's eyes drift closed, like a sleepy cat being petted. 

"What did you tell Dmitri about it?" Not, perhaps, the topic of conversation most conducive to Mulder's ends, but he'd already betrayed his interest in the arm, and besides, he wanted to know. 

"That it happened while I was fighting the same enemy that had destroyed his family." 

Clever. And not even necessarily a lie. "What have you told him about it all? The black cancer and the mass abductions?" 

"I've tried not to tell him too much. I want him out of it—he should be able to live his life in peace, without having to worry about alien invasions and the end of the world." Krycek sighed, and smiled a little. "I've told him it was secret projects and spy stuff. Hell, he was a ten-year-old Russian living in Kazakhstan during the breakup of the Soviet Union—he knows all about governments and their games." 

Mulder smiled back, still caressing Krycek's shoulder under the sleeve. The skin was soft and warm and pleasant to the touch. Strange to feel it end here, in cold, hard plastic. He felt himself drifting, as lulled by the quiet intimacy of the moment as the other man. He moved his hand away, then, and smoothed Krycek's sleeve down, feeling the ridge of the prosthesis pressing against flesh beneath the thin cotton. He remembered Tunguska, and the man in his cabin, holding a huge machete in his hand, ready to chop off Mulder's arm to save him from the tests with the black oil. No hospitals, no anaesthetics—just desperate men doing what they thought they had to do to survive. Krycek had suffered what Mulder had barely escaped. He couldn't imagine it, although in his nightmares he'd tried. The huge knife, slicing through muscle, severing arteries, crushing bone.... "What did it feel like?" he found himself asking, in a voice low and husky—and instantly regretted it. Demonstrating his sick fascination with the man's pain was not the way to seduce him. 

Krycek stared. His mouth worked, and his eyes were like chips of stone. Mulder thought for a moment he was going to get up and leave. But then he drew a ragged breath and lay back, closing his eyes briefly, then staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. "It was huge," he said at last, "the pain...." He paused, frowning, searching for words. It occurred to Mulder that perhaps, after all this time, he wanted to talk about it. "So huge... it was everything, forever. It was deep and thick and sharp, all at the same time. It was so horrible...." He paused again, and took a deep breath. "It felt like death." He closed his eyes again, and swallowed, bringing his hand up to his forehead. Mulder could feel the heat coming off him. 

All sense, all cunning cast aside, Mulder bent down and let his lips meet Krycek's. A brief kiss, chaste, no more than he'd given Dmitri. But his heart was pounding. He kissed Krycek's mouth again, as he had before, then pulled back far enough to see Krycek's expression. 

Calm. Accepting. It was—god, it was the way he'd offered himself to Dmitri, in penance for his sins. Was he now offering himself to Mulder the same way? 

Strangely, Mulder now felt a twinge of reluctance. Although, wasn't that what he wanted him for? Penance? Krycek's guilt and pain, in return for his betrayal? But he hadn't quite gotten as far as thinking that the act of his submission might bring a measure of ease to Krycek, too. _Some people you never bothered to ask for forgiveness,_ he'd accused, and, _Would it have done any good?_ Krycek had asked. Not, _I don't want your forgiveness._ Not, _I don't care what I did to you._ Willing to make amends, as long as the effort was not a lost cause. Unwilling to take on more pain, but willing to share what he had, if it would bring comfort to them both. 

No. Mulder wasn't ready for that. It implied forgiveness, and there was no forgiveness here. No forgiveness—only a burning need that demanded satisfaction. He only had to be gentle enough to make Krycek lie still for it. If the man mistakenly assumed it meant more than it did, that was his problem. 

Mulder bent down again, and pressed his mouth to Krycek's, this time letting the kiss linger, becoming unmistakably sexual. He stretched out his body, drawing his knees up onto the bed until he was lying next to Krycek, and brought his elbows down on either side of Krycek's chest. And he kissed him slowly, exploring the feel and taste of those plush, round lips, letting his tongue flick between them, dampening them. 

Krycek groaned, and his arms came up to encircle Mulder's back, one warm, firm flesh, the other hard, cool plastic. It was an odd feeling, but not an unpleasant one. The living fingers dug into his back, and Krycek's upper body lifted to meet his, heaving chest pressed against him. 

Mulder let his mouth roam over Krycek's face, nuzzling the unshaven cheeks, nibbling the lobes of his small, neat ears, then returned to his lips, hungry now, demanding, forcing his tongue into the wet cavern of his mouth. Krycek took him in, opening his own mouth wide, as if he would swallow Mulder up. Mulder almost laughed at the limitless abandon of it, but instead he gripped Krycek's upper arms—both real and fake, like the man himself—and bore down harder, sent his tongue in deeper, until his jaws ached and his head spun. 

At last he pushed back, sitting up on his knees, gasping for breath, and began to unbutton his shirt. Krycek looked up at him, mouth shiny and wet, eyes bright. His expression was strange, almost grim, as if there were serious work to be done. Mulder almost laughed again, turned it into a grimace, and pushed himself to his feet to finish undressing. It seemed that neither of them was in this purely for the pleasure of it. 

Krycek worked his prosthetic elbow under himself, and reached down to unbutton his jeans with one hand. Mulder had never considered how awkward it must be to dress and undress with only one arm. Should he help? But that would probably only embarrass him. Instead, Mulder turned away, under cover of draping his clothing across a chair, and left Krycek in semi-privacy to get his pants off. 

Presently, he heard the sound of Krycek's jeans hitting the floor. It sent a flush to his face, and he hurried to finish getting his own clothes off, scattering socks and underwear like wind-blown leaves. When he turned back to the bed, Krycek was sitting up, naked below the waist, attempting to get a grip on his tee-shirt hem with his prosthetic hand. Too impatient to coddle Krycek's sensitivities any longer, Mulder knelt beside him on the bed and pushed his hands aside, then pulled the tee-shirt over his head. Krycek cooperated as best he could—the prosthesis was not as maneuverable as the real arm, and the shirt tangled over it for a moment, but Mulder just took him firmly by the shoulder and worked it free, tossing it in the floor with the rest of his clothes. Krycek allowed this, as he'd allowed the rest of it, only the tightening of his mouth betraying any ambivalence about having his damaged arm handled. He rubbed his shoulder briefly. 

Mulder sat regarding the prosthesis. "Do you want to take it off?" 

Krycek looked away, frowning, with a slight shake of his head. He gripped the arm just above the elbow, as if afraid Mulder would try to take it from him 

"Okay. It's okay, Krycek, I don't mind it. I just thought you might be more comfortable without it." He didn't have to make an effort to put the gentleness in his voice. Hell, tormenting the guy about his disability was not what this was about. In fact, he was impatient with it already. 

Krycek closed his eyes briefly, took a breath. A visible wash of calm settled over him, the grip on his arm loosened, and he looked back at Mulder, a faint smile on his face. 

It was beautiful the way he did that: a deep breath, an effort of will, and his perfect control was back. Mulder was tempted to envy him—although he knew quite well that self-control had never been one of his primary goals. What would it take to shatter that control? Mulder had a sudden desire to see him thrashing, twisting, squirming, out of control. His cock jumped at the thought. Twisting and squirming with Mulder's cock up his ass. He smiled back, amused to know that Krycek had no idea why he was really smiling. 

And now what? Lay him down and kiss him some more? That had been nice. Touch him all over, feel his cock and balls, pinch his nipples, work him up into a nice frenzy before turning him over and shoving it into him? Make him suck it for a while first? Such a nice round mouth, just made for cocksucking. How many other cocks had been down that throat, up that ass? He was far too accepting of all this to be a virgin. Too pretty not to have been approached. Probably a slut who'd sit on it for anybody. 

Mulder's breath grew hot and sharp in his lungs. The terrible need was back. And now, at last, he could fulfill it. 

"I want to fuck you." 

Krycek's smile turned ironic. "Why does that not surprise me?" 

"Good. It wasn't my plan to surprise you." Mulder put a hand on Krycek's shoulder, and pushed him back down on the bed. Another leisurely kiss, even better now that he could press his bare body into Krycek's, feel skin on skin, let his full cock slide over Krycek's thigh. The feel of the prosthetic arm on his back was stranger now, with no cloth between it and the bare skin of his back. But the other arm... hand massaging its way down his spine, stroking his butt, fingers drifting over his tailbone, teasing, then sliding back up to dig into the back of his neck, through his hair—Mulder didn't know if he'd be able to take two arms working him like that. The man was a menace. And he was kissing back, now, too—hungrily, using his tongue as deftly as he used his hand, and his thigh was squirming between Mulder's legs, rubbing against the underside of his cock, threatening to push him over the edge here and now. 

Mulder pulled away, growling in his throat. "Turn over, bitch." 

Krycek chuckled softly. "Like to talk dirty, huh? Get that from your phone sex habit?" 

Mulder clutched at Krycek's thigh, ran his hand between Krycek's legs, scooped up his balls, kneading them, just on the edge of roughness. "Bitch. Cunt." 

"I'm not impressed, Mulder." Still maddeningly controlled. But there was a hint of breathiness in his voice. 

"Cocksucker." 

"Better. Work for it, sweetheart." 

Mulder gave Krycek's balls one last pull, making his hips jerk, then released them to take hold of his cock, squeezing it hard, pressing his thumb over the tip. Krycek gave a squeaky moan, his back arching off the mattress. 

"You goddamn lying bastard. Murdering treacherous son of a bitch." 

"Yeah," Krycek whispered. His hand slid up the back of Mulder's neck, tightened in his hair. 

"Whore. God, I want to fuck you." 

Krycek pushed away, heaved himself over onto his stomach. "Do it. Do it." 

  
There was a red haze behind Mulder's eyes as he scrabbled in the nightstand drawer for a condom and the plastic bottle of lubricant he used for masturbating. Biting his lip, cursing under his breath, he tore open the condom and rolled it over his cock with trembling hands. Then he flipped the top of the lubricant bottle and poured a generous amount into his hand. Still swearing to himself, he touched Krycek's tailbone with slick fingers, slid his hand down between firm, round buttocks, drawing in a sharp breath when his fingers found the bud of Krycek's anus. He stroked it, letting the lubricant run down his fingers and drip into the tight depression of Krycek's ass. The flesh here was hot and tender. He pressed one finger in, and felt the ring of muscle give, felt his finger slide within. 

Krycek moaned, and gripped the pillow, digging into it with his fingers. The muscles in his back twitched. Mulder pushed his finger in deeper, up to the last knuckle, moving it inside him, feeling the heat of him, the moist give of flesh, gasping with the pleasure of it. He pulled out and went in with two fingers, and he slid in easily, meeting no resistance. How many cocks? Enough. Enough—and now one more. 

He pulled his fingers free, and knelt back to pour more lubricant into his hand, and spread it over his aching cock. Then he mounted Krycek's back, pushing his legs apart with his knees, and guided his cock between Krycek's buttocks. 

Despite the ease with which his fingers went in, Mulder was prepared to go slowly, but as soon as his cock found the puckered entrance, Krycek pushed back, making noises like an animal, growling, "Give it to me, fucker, give it to me," and Mulder was only too glad to oblige. He held himself in check only until Krycek had worked the head of Mulder's cock past his sphincter, then he thrust hard and drove it home. Krycek squealed and pounded the mattress with his fist; Mulder felt a triumphant shout welling up inside his throat. Krycek was magnificent—thoroughly impaled on Mulder's cock, squirming and growling, his beautiful control gone. His ass was tight and hot and Mulder was up to his balls in it, pounding him hard, and it was perfect, and Mulder wanted it to go on forever— 

And then he was gripping Krycek's shoulders as tightly as his fingers would hold, jamming his cock in to the limit, and the shout tore loose from his throat, as he pulsed out an orgasm so strong his ears were ringing. 

Too soon. Too good to be over so soon. Gasping, Mulder started thrusting again, and Krycek moved with him, lifting his hips, arching them up to take Mulder's thrusts at their deepest angle. Laughing softly with pure joy, Mulder worked his arms around Krycek's body, one hard across his heaving chest, the other sliding down to grip Krycek's cock. Wet with sweat, and then with precum, his fist became a slick channel for Krycek to pump into, and brief moments later, Krycek gasped and came, collapsing onto the mattress with a strangled cry. 

Mulder barely had the strength to pull out and strip the condom from his softening cock and toss it into the trash. Rapidly spiralling down into sleep, moving without thinking, he pulled up the covers, threw one arm over Krycek's back, and let the darkness take him. 

  
It was sometime in the early morning, with predawn light beginning to brighten the room, when Mulder once again drifted awake. He lay still for a moment, unused to waking in his bed. Unused to waking with someone else in his bed with him. They weren't touching, but he was keenly aware of Krycek's presence—the soft sounds of his breathing, the gentle depression in the mattress from the weight of his body. Alex Krycek, sleeping in his bed. He remembered the brief, frantic coupling of a few hours ago, replaying the actions and sensations in his mind: Krycek lying beneath him, his strong body hot and slick with sweat, thrusting back onto Mulder's cock, desperate animal sounds in his throat. His breath quickened even as he thought about it. So good it had been; everything that Mulder thought he wanted—and yet, had he really imagined that this would solve anything? He looked over to where Krycek lay sleeping, curled up on his side, back to Mulder. He was still the same man as before: capable of horrible things, yet determinedly carrying out small acts of restitution along the way; full of contradictions, beauty and evil; whatever core there was of him elusive quicksilver, that Mulder would never touch. 

So the seduction had brought him one burst of wild pleasure, a few hours of rest—a physical release, nothing more. Well, let that be good enough, and send the man on his way, and hope for Dmitri's sake that they got out of the country safely. He might as well go back out to the living room and spend what was left of the night on the couch. But he felt strangely reluctant to move. It was warm here, and comfortable, and the bed was big enough. 

Mulder turned on his side, facing Krycek's broad back, and watched the sleeping body. Krycek lay on his left side, the prosthetic arm tucked under him, out of Mulder's sight. He was solidly built, with the appearance of quiet strength. His skin was smooth and creamy. The sheet draped across his hip, revealing only a teasing glimpse of the dimple of his tailbone. That faint sheen might be a trace of lubricant still clinging, but was probably only a trick of the light. 

Mulder reached out his hand, placed the palm flat between Krycek's shoulderblades. Just the lightest touch at first—he didn't want to wake him, he just wanted to lie here quietly with him and think. But Krycek remained motionless, dead asleep, so he pressed his hand more firmly against Krycek's back, stroking a little, enjoying the heat of him, the softness of his skin, the hard muscle beneath. 

How could it feel so good to touch him? Just to lie here, with his hand pressed against the middle of Krycek's back? He didn't know, and he was fairly sure he didn't really want to know. There was just something touchable about Krycek, and there always had been, right from the start, although Mulder didn't like to think about those days now. But if he ignored everything else and just remembered the physical Krycek, the starched white shirts and cheap suits and long slender fingers and dazzling smile, he remembered pressing his shoulder against Krycek's as they sat huddled in front of a computer screen, putting a hand on Krycek's shoulder or forearm to make a point, taking him by the elbow to hurry him along; and it had felt so right, so natural that Mulder had never even thought about it. And he remembered later days, when the hand had turned into a fist, and the pat on the shoulder into a shove—and while the contact was now driven by rage and hatred, there was still that uncontrollable need to have his hands on him. 

And now here he was in Mulder's bed, and Mulder had fucked him, and far from seeming as it should like some unnatural aberration, there was a strange inevitability about it, as if every touch from the very first time Krycek had brushed passed him, leaving his heat imprinted on Mulder's arm and his scent lingering in the air, had been leading inexorably up to this. 

  
Mulder edged closer, still careful not to wake him, and let his hand slip around Krycek's side and across his firm stomach. His body always seemed to be several degrees hotter than Mulder's—he could feel the delicious heat rising off him. Mulder eased himself forward, until he was pressed tightly against Krycek's body, chest to back, groin to butt, thigh to thigh. Krycek stirred slightly, making little sleep noises and settling back against the body cradling him from behind. Still, he didn't wake. Did he feel safe here, Mulder wondered? A man like Krycek didn't live long falling defenselessly sound asleep in an enemy's stronghold. So did that mean Krycek didn't think of him as an enemy? The image came back to Mulder with the force of a blow: Krycek, bending down to him on the floor, soft lips pressing against Mulder's cheek, then, unbelievably, uncocking his gun and handing it over, and calmly walking away as if nothing at all had happened. 

Without thinking, Mulder bent his neck forward, and pressed his lips to Krycek's cheek. _Now we're even,_ he thought, and although he knew full well the absurdity of it, he settled back with a faint smile on his face, and went peacefully back to sleep. 

  
When he woke again, it was full morning, and Mulder was alone in bed. There was a moment of panic—visions of abandonment and betrayal and endless nights of wondering: how long this time?—then he glanced across the room, and there was Krycek, standing by the window, back to Mulder, still undressed. Even more so, in fact—he'd taken off the prosthesis. It lay on Mulder's chest of drawers, looking strangely formless, a thing of plastic and metal and straps. Krycek was stretching, twisting his back, rubbing the stump of his left arm. There were indentations where the prosthesis fitted to the stump, and across his back where the straps had dug. It must be uncomfortable to sleep with it on, Mulder thought, and so much for Krycek feeling safe here, if he'd kept it on regardless. On the other hand, he'd gone out like a light as soon as he'd come, and possibly hadn't awakened to take it off until now. He must have been wearing it for days now, never stopping long enough to rest, much less holing up anywhere safe enough to risk stripping down to his skin. Mulder found that he was glad that Krycek had the chance to do it here. 

"Good morning, Mulder," Krycek said matter-of-factly, without turning around. He lowered his arms—one whole and one cruelly shortened—and reached out to snag the prosthesis from the chest of drawers. Then he turned, looking sleek and content, and smiled benevolently at Mulder. "Sleep well?" 

Mulder propped himself up onto his elbow and nodded. "Want some help with that?" 

Krycek shook his head, mouth tightening briefly. Then, in a series of smooth, practiced motions, he slipped the strap over his head, tucked his arm through it, and pulled the prosthesis over the stump with a slight wriggle to set it in place. He walked back over to the bed, adjusting the buckles, and sat down with a satisfied smile. 

Mulder grinned at him. "What are you going to do today?" 

"Finish arrangements for the ID and visas. Try to get money for the plane tickets. Check in with my current employer and see if I can figure out a way to do this without burning my bridges behind me. Again." He ticked it all off in that same matter-of-fact tone, as if he were talking about picking up his laundry. 

"What can I do?" 

Krycek frowned thoughtfully at him for a moment. "I need a photo of Dmitri for his passport. Preferably one where his face isn't all messed up." 

He could take a Polaroid at the hospital, and get the Lone Gunmen to work their digital magic on it. It wouldn't look exactly like Dmitri, probably, but the boy would still have bandages all over his face when he left, so it should do. He thought Frohike had a digital camera he could borrow—that would be even better. "I can do that. What else?" 

"He needs clothes. His own things were ruined. A couple of pairs of jeans, tee-shirts, underwear, things like that." 

"Okay. What about you? Do you need underwear?" 

Krycek smiled faintly. "I'll take care of my own underwear, thanks, Mulder. Just take care of Mitya, all right?" 

"Mitya?" 

Krycek's cheeks went pink. "Short for Dmitri. Call him that when you see him, will you? It will make him happy." 

"All right. Anything else?" 

"Just whatever he'll need for the trip. Toothbrush and things like that. A duffel bag to put it all in." 

"Russian comic books to read on the plane...." 

Krycek chuckled. "If anybody could come up with something like that, it would be you, Mulder." He stood, then, and began gathering up his clothes from the floor. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" 

"Help yourself," Mulder said, sitting up and untangling himself from the sheet. "Just let me in there for a minute first, then it's all yours." 

  
An hour later, they were both showered and dressed and ready to go to work. Mulder smiled to see his houseguest, fresh-scrubbed and clean-shaven and bright-eyed, armored in his leather and gloves, looking dark and dangerous and stunningly beautiful. He wanted to take him in his arms, but felt shy all of a sudden. Last night was already taking on the quality of a dream, something he wasn't sure had really happened. 

"I'll get the things for Dmitri—for Mitya—today. Will you come back here tonight?" They'd take things slower tonight, Mulder thought. Just as intense, but not quite so frenzied— 

A shadow passed across Krycek's face. "Mulder...." He paused, chewing on his lower lip. "We're leaving tonight. Dmitri's being released from the hospital today—I thought you knew." 

Mulder's stomach lurched. He could feel the heat rush to his face, the sinking feeling in his gut. _No!_ he wanted to protest. _You can't disappear on me again, you can't leave me like this._ But that wasn't fair, and he knew it. He'd always known Krycek was leaving as soon as he could arrange to get himself and Dmitri out of the country. He'd agreed to help him do it. He'd known Krycek was leaving, why should it be such a knockout blow to him now? 

But he hadn't spent the night with Krycek before. He hadn't known that having his hands on him was all he needed to make the madness Krycek induced go away. He hadn't known what it felt like to ride him, to feel him bucking beneath him, to revel in his heat. He knew Krycek had to leave, he just hadn't been prepared for it to be so soon. He was somehow never prepared for Krycek to leave, even though he always did. 

He forced a smile. "No, I didn't know. That's good. Are you sure you'll be ready in time?" He knew the shock and dismay was plain on his face, but he wilfully pretended it wasn't. What would be the point? 

Krycek nodded shortly, as if to say he understood. "I'll be ready. If you can get the photo and the things for Dmitri, I'll do the rest." 

It would only take a few hours, Mulder thought, to arrange for the photograph and buy some clothes for the boy. "I can do it. Where should we meet?" 

Krycek looked away, blinking, his mouth a hard line. His control was better than Mulder's, but he was unhappy, too. This time, however, his pain was not pleasant to watch. "You can bring the stuff to the hospital. I'll be picking up Dmitri around three." 

Mulder chafed. At the hospital, in public, with the boy watching, and all those false Russian kisses. He didn't want it to be there, it was no good, there had to be somewhere private, and they had to have more time. There were things that had to be said. Mulder had no idea what those things were, but even if he managed to figure them out, there would be no chance to say them at the hospital. He could go with them to the airport, maybe—another public place, and stretch the inevitable out even longer, with no hope of accomplishing anything but making himself more miserable. No, whatever goodbyes were to be said had to be here and now. 

"All right. I'll meet you at the hospital at three." 

Krycek nodded, and turned to walk to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back. "Mulder. Thanks for... everything." 

Mulder returned the nod, his heart in his throat. He had to say something, damn it, but the words wouldn't come. He could only stand in frozen misery while Krycek went out the door. 

  
It was necessary to sit for a while on the couch after Krycek had gone, to remember how to breathe, and to let his mind return to some semblance of order. Eventually he reminded himself that he did have things to do today, not the least of which was to make some sort of appearance at the office and try not to annoy Scully any more than he already had. So he forced himself up off the couch, and set out. 

First stop was the Lone Gunmen offices, to talk Frohike into giving up his digital camera for the morning, and extract his friends' promises to help him with the photo, amid rude comments about kiddie porn and Russian-American relations. It was good to be with them for that short time, among people who weren't angry with him for unfathomable reasons, who didn't drive him unreasoningly crazy, who didn't make him feel guilty, who didn't ask him unanswerable questions. They just kidded him and made stupid jokes, and if they noticed that Mulder was painfully unhappy, they were kind enough or confused enough to pretend that they didn't. It was tempting to stay there all morning, but he had too much to do. So as soon as he could, he collected the camera and took his leave. 

  
Still, he was seriously late for work, which did nothing to soften Scully's attitude towards him. She cornered him only a few minutes after he'd arrived at his office, pulling up a chair in front of his desk that she neglected to sit in, and chewing on her lip in that way that she did when she was trying not to tell him what an idiot he was. 

"Have you had any news?" she asked. 

"I saw Krycek last night." _Naked._ He shook his head and tried to will his heart to stop pounding. If he were to tell her what had really happened, was there the slightest chance that it wouldn't sound as if he'd completely lost his mind? "He was at the hospital with Dmitri. Did I tell you they cut off his arm in Tunguska?" 

Her eyes widened. "Krycek? They cut off his arm?" 

"Remember, I told you about the men in Tunguska who cut off their left arms to avoid the tests with the black oil?" He was babbling, and he knew it, but at least he wasn't saying, _I fucked Krycek last night,_ which was what seemed to keep wanting to come out of his mouth. 

She nodded slowly. "How horrible. Even for Krycek." 

"He was showing it to Dmitri when I got there. He has a prosthesis. He's good with it—you'd hardly know it's not real." _Except when you're stripping him, and it gets tangled up in his tee-shirt. But when he's lying on his stomach getting fucked, you barely notice it. Except for the strap across his back._ Next time, they'd take it off before they— 

Next time? _There's not going to be any damned next time,_ Mulder told himself furiously. Krycek was going back to Russia tonight, and god only knew when or if he'd be back, or under what circumstances, and Mulder had just better put all thoughts of next time right out of his mind. 

"It's a wonder he's alive at all, if it happened to him in the way you described that it almost happened to you—no proper medical facilities, no anaesthetic—it's barbaric." That was the doctor in her, now, disapproving of it as a medical procedure. 

"He said it hurt so much, it felt like death." 

One eyebrow lifted. "He talked to you about it?" 

Mulder shrugged, embarrassed for no reason he could fathom. "He didn't seem to mind. It was over a year ago—I suppose by now he's dealt with it." 

"What else did you talk about?" 

Not much, Mulder thought. Once again, they hadn't done much talking at all. "He asked me to pick up some things for Dmitri. He's getting out of the hospital today, and they're leaving tonight." 

"Good," she said, in a tone that plainly meant, Good riddance. 

It hurt. Mulder was honestly surprised by how much it hurt. And it must have showed on his face, too, because Scully's expression instantly turned to one of dismay. 

"It's not good?" Despite the irritation that never quite left her face, in the set of her jaw and the slight narrowing of her eyes, she tried to understand him. But he didn't understand it himself—how in hell could he want something so badly that was so clearly a disaster? 

"Scully, why are you mad at me?" It came out without thinking: a sudden refusal of his mind to think about Krycek any longer. Even Scully's anger was preferable to Krycek's imminent departure. 

She shook her head. "I'm not mad at you." 

"Yes, you are. You've been angry with me for days now. Come on, Scully, I'm dense, but I'm not that dense. What is it?" 

She looked at him, considering. Reluctant, despite the tension at the corners of her mouth. "Mulder, are you sure you want to go into this now?" 

No. He laughed, a short pained noise, more an exhalation of breath than a real laugh. "Is it that bad?" 

She heaved a deep breath, staring at the wall, and nodded. "All right." She turned, then, and walked over to the door, back across the room to stop for a moment, her fist tapping twice against the file cabinets wherein the X-Files rested, then finally settled against the end of his desk, arms folded, glancing at him sidelong as she spoke. "Mulder, do you remember our first case together? Teenagers were disappearing in the woods in Oregon. You told me they were being abducted by aliens." She gave a strained laugh, and Mulder managed to smile with her. "Then there were mysterious lights in the sky over an Air Force base, and a test pilot whose wife insisted he'd returned from being missing a different man. UFOs, you said, and alien involvement. A serial killer you insisted was some sort of genetic mutant who could stretch his body thinner than a baseball bat, who lived on human livers. Need I go on?" 

Mulder shook his head, but Scully had already turned away, to move around to the front of his desk, where she stood facing him with a grim look on her face. " 'Why can't you believe?' you asked me. 'Open your mind to extreme possibilities.' With no solid evidence, no scientific basis, no sensible logic, you've asked me to take you on faith, to follow you on your quest for the truth. And I have. I've put my career, my life, my health on the line for you, time and time again. 

"And now...." She paused, looked away for a moment. There was pain in her eyes—pain he'd put there, and he hated to see it. "Now, you've changed your mind. It was all a hoax, everything we saw, everything we learned. Because some total stranger pops up with a plausible story, you're ready to throw it all away. Never mind all the times I tried to tell you that the theories you were so eager to believe didn't make sense. And when things started happening to me—things I saw with my own eyes—men with no faces, and fire, and a craft covered with lights moving over the bridge—all the kinds of things you've been trying to tell me were real for the past five years—you still don't believe me. Until Alex Krycek comes along and shoves a gun in your face and hands you a piece of paper, and now you're ready to believe again. Why is it, Mulder, that your enemies and total strangers can spin any story and you'll take it as gospel, but nothing I say, even when it's my own personal experience, means anything to you?" 

Oh god. Was that how it seemed to her? Mulder wanted to shrink in his chair, until he was as small as he felt. His face burned with shame, that he'd been so blind and stupid, to let Scully think she meant so little to him. "Scully... it's not like that." 

"Then how is it?" Her voice was still rough, but it had softened a little, now that she'd said her piece. She was upset, but she would listen to him. It was enough to make him feel a little steadier. Now all he had to do was figure out how to explain it to her. It wasn't something he was good at, and he had no faith he'd be able to make things right. But he owed it to her to try. 

"I remember our first case," he said, still not knowing what he was going to say, but needing to say something. "You told me I was crazy. The first of many times." They both smiled unhappy smiles. "I remember all the times you looked at me when I told you about our next case, exasperated, obviously thinking, there he goes again, off on some wild goose chase. The way you'd stand there, embarrassed, wishing you could pretend you weren't with me, when I was trying to explain my theories to some local officials. What about you, Scully? 'Open your mind to extreme possibilities'—but you never could." He stopped, shook his head. "But it didn't matter to me. Because, whether you believed or not, you stood by me. You kept me from going off the deep end. There have been times when having you disagree with me has been the only thing that's kept me sane. I guess... whether we agreed with each other has just never seemed that important to me." 

Miracle of miracles, he'd gotten it right. Her face cleared, and the hurt drained away. "I suppose you're right. If our partnership depended on our believing each other's theories, we wouldn't have lasted two weeks." 

The hard knot in his chest loosened. "So we're okay?" 

Scully nodded, offering a conciliatory smile. "What about Krycek?" 

He flinched. For that short time, he'd managed to forget. The knot in his chest began to form again. "I'm meeting him at the hospital at three. I need to get some things for him—for Dmitri. They'll probably go straight from there to the airport. I don't know what time their flight is...." 

"Mulder," she said patiently. "What about Krycek?" 

The knot was becoming a crushing weight. _No,_ he insisted to himself. _I am not going to cry over Alex Goddamned Krycek._ But he had to tell Scully the truth. Except that he didn't know what the truth was, and it made him blind crazy even to think about it. "I don't want him to leave." 

"Why not?" 

"I don't know... as bad as it is to have him here, it feels worse to have him leave." 

She sat down, finally, looking at him thoughtfully. "Mulder, that doesn't make sense." It was a familiar look on her face: part frustration, part confusion, part honest effort to puzzle her oddball partner out. But at last no anger. 

"I thought we were finally beginning to work some things out. Maybe it wouldn't have come to anything. But now there's no time to find out." 

"After everything he's done, why would you even want to work anything out with him?" 

It was a good question. One he wished he had an answer for. "I don't know, Scully. There's something between us... it gets crazier every time I see him. If I could just get him out of my life, I would, but we seem to be fated to keep stumbling over each other's paths. I don't want to go through this every time it happens. There has to be another way." _Kill him or fuck him._ Too close, she was getting too close to things he couldn't bear to think about. 

She sat for long moments, pressing her lips together, nodding slightly to herself. He found himself tensing against her next question, not really wanting to know what conclusions she was drawing. 

But all she said was, "He'll come back, though, won't he? Is he planning to stay in Russia?" 

Mulder let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "I don't know." 

"Don't you want to ask him?" 

Mulder shook his head helplessly. "Scully, I can't—it's no good. I can't put my faith in believing that he'll come back." 

Scully nodded slowly. "I understand. But Mulder—if there are things you need to say to him, you should say them. You've still got this afternoon." 

He could only shrug miserably. "I don't know what to say." 

  
Next stop was the hospital: another small relief to his nerves, to be able to sit for a while with Dmitri—boisterous and giggly today, just another teenaged boy, except for the bandages and the bruises fading to a riot of purple and green and brown on his face. Mulder had greeted him as "Mitya," to the boy's delight, and been called something he thought was "Mulyosha" in return. He wondered whether he wanted to ask Krycek about that. They chattered inconsequentially to each other, each in his own language. He didn't know if Krycek had explained to Dmitri about the photograph, but in any case the boy was happy to sit up and pose for pictures, and fascinated by the images of himself on the camera's little monitor screen. Mulder ended up posing for a few shots himself, all the while dreading what would become of them in the Lone Gunmen's computers. 

"I have to go now," he told Dmitri at last, pocketing the camera and straightening Dmitri's sheets. "I'll see you again this afternoon. I'll have some new clothes for you then." 

Dmitri let out a furious burst of Russian, at which Mulder could only nod, and flung his arms around Mulder as he tried to stand. Mulder gave the boy a quick kiss, again feeling a little uneasy about it, but liking the wiry strength in the boy's thin arms gripping him, and the pleased smile on Dmitri's face as he lay back down in his hospital bed. 

_Funny,_ Mulder thought as he left, _the person I get along with best these days, and neither of us can understand a word the other says._

  
The next few hours passed easily enough, as he concentrated on his errands, and tried to forget everything else. He retrieved Dmitri's tattered, scorched clothing from the nurses, to use in determining what sizes he wore, dropped off the camera with the Lone Gunmen, then went shopping. He hated shopping for himself, but he found that he enjoyed picking out things for Dmitri—imagining the boy wearing them, picturing the smiles on his face. He bought three pairs of jeans, three tee-shirts, a sweater, a denim jacket with flannel lining, half a dozen pairs of underwear and socks, handkerchiefs, sneakers, even a baseball cap; along with toothbrush and toothpaste, shampoo and soap, and a large canvas duffel bag. He stopped at an international newsstand and bought all the Russian magazines and papers he could find. No comic books, but at least the boy would have something to read. 

By then it was time to go back to the Lone Gunmen's office and collect the doctored photos—they'd done a stunning job, as usual, and Mulder would never have guessed that the boy in the photos had ever had plaster across his nose, two black eyes, and needle punctures all around his mouth and eyelids. He wondered whether the uninjured Dmitri really looked like that—and felt a little sad that he'd likely never know. 

And then it was time to go back to the hospital, and Krycek. 

  
Krycek: black leather and heat. Firm, solid muscle. Wide, liquid eyes and soft, full lips. One arm lost to bright, sharp metal. 

_It felt like death._

The taste of his mouth, hot and smoky. 

Moist, yielding flesh inside. 

_Do it. Do it._

  
Krycek: say what there is to say to him now, or spend endless nights lying awake, wondering. Kill him or fuck him. And then what? Fuck him again, and again, and again, until everything had dissolved, all the hate and betrayal and painful loss, until nothing was left but hot, spent bodies clinging together in the night. 

  
By the time Mulder opened the door to Dmitri's hospital room, he was finding it difficult to get quite enough air into his lungs, gasping as if he'd run all the way up the stairs. The first glimpse of Krycek standing by Dmitri's bed was such a shock he had to close his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he concentrated on Dmitri, who was sitting up, all the tubes gone from his arms, a fresh bandage across his nose, and a big smile on his face. 

"Hey, Mitya," Mulder said, trying to be jovial in a voice that barely made it above a whisper. He unslung the duffel bag from his shoulder. "I brought you some clothes." 

Krycek came to stand by him, while Dmitri took the duffel bag and began digging through its contents, with small, excited exclamations. Mulder felt, impossibly, that he could feel Krycek's heat from here. 

Krycek put a hand on his arm. The prosthetic hand, under a black leather glove. Mulder's breath came out in short puffs. He was relieved not to be touched by Krycek's flesh hand, even under gloves. It was difficult to force his neck to turn, to look into Krycek's face. 

Krycek blinked. His wide eyes were troubled. Tension formed a white line around his mouth. His voice, when he spoke, was dark water tumbling headlong over rocks. "Let's go out, and let Dmitri get dressed." 

  
In the hallway, Mulder dug in his pockets for the photos, and handed them to Krycek. Krycek looked at them and nodded. "Good. These are good." But he frowned at them, and Mulder wondered why, until he realized—Krycek knew what the boy looked like without the broken nose and bruises. When he had first found him, the boy had been unharmed. 

"He's feeling a lot better today," Mulder offered. "You were right, he's a tough kid. He's bounced back quickly." 

Krycek nodded shortly. "Now all I have to do is find a home for him, in a country where most people can't afford their own kids." 

"You said he had relatives." 

"I hope they'll take him." 

"What will you do if they won't?" 

Krycek shrugged. "That's my problem. I'll take care of him." He looked Mulder in the eye, grimly determined. "I won't let him down, Mulder." 

Mulder believed him. It was an odd feeling, and a disquieting one. A Krycek who could be believed. Who tried to make up for the pain he'd inflicted. Who slept peacefully in Mulder's bed.... 

"What time is your flight?" 

"Six-thirty. We should get there in plenty of time. I just need to make one quick stop along the way." 

Dmitri's passport. Krycek must have a lot of faith in his forger, to leave it so late. But then, he'd been cutting it close all along, trying to get Dmitri out of the country with all possible speed. A good idea, if Dmitri really was in danger. And no way to know if he wasn't, without exposing him to risk. So they'd have to leave soon, and not take any time for lingering farewells. "I'll drive you." He made the offer without thinking, knowing it was a bad idea, but unable to let go. 

"Sorry, Mulder. My contact won't appreciate the uninvited company." He truly did sound sorry. 

"I'll meet you at the airport, then." God, he was making a fool of himself. 

Krycek's face darkened with pain, but only for a moment. "I... I don't think that's a good idea. You might be recognized. It's an added risk." 

Mulder bit his lip and nodded. He supposed it was true. He also supposed it was possible that Krycek just wanted to get it over with. Unlike Mulder, he didn't seem the type to deliberately prolong his agony. "I guess this is it, then." 

Krycek tried to smile. Mulder suddenly saw him as he'd been the first day they'd met—impossibly young-looking and awkward in his off-the-rack suit and bad haircut, fresh-faced and green and eager to please. Could that naivete have been entirely an act? Or had he truly been a child-agent then, hardened and honed by the dangerous years that followed? Mulder wanted to hold him down, strip him of all his defenses, and find out. 

"Thanks for your help. Dmitri thanks you, too." 

Mulder shrugged. "I didn't really do that much." 

Krycek seemed surprised. He eyed Mulder curiously. "You did enough. You could have stopped me, and you didn't. I appreciate that. I needed to do this." 

Mulder nodded. The knot in his chest was back. "Well. Tell Dmitri good luck, and safe journey." In a barely audible voice, he added, "You too." 

"Thanks." Krycek touched his arm, briefly—with his right hand, the real one. Then he turned to go back into Dmitri's room. 

Krycek's hand was on the door handle. "I don't want you to go," Mulder choked out, shocked at his own words. 

No more than Krycek. He turned, eyes wide. "Mulder...." 

Mulder shook his head, took a step back, his face burning. "No, never mind—" 

"Mulder, I—you know I have to—" 

"I know," Mulder interrupted. Krycek's face was frozen pain; Mulder couldn't bear it. Or the way his own heart churned, wanting something he didn't dare believe in. "Forget I said anything." 

"I'll come back. After I get Dmitri settled." 

"No, you won't." 

"It may only be a week or two. A month at most." 

"Goodbye, Krycek." His voice rose, insistent. 

Krycek stood, staring at him. There was a wild look in his eyes. His fist clenched and unclenched at his side. Long moments passed, in which Mulder felt that anything could happen, anything at all. 

Then Krycek took a deep breath, and his mask of calm settled over him. But it was brittle, and looked about to shatter. _"Dos vidaniya,_ Mulder." And he slipped away, through the door of Dmitri's room. 

Feeling blank and empty, Mulder turned and walked away. 

  
Mulder went home that night, undressed, and got into bed—something he hadn't done in ages, until last night. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for the desolation to go away, as if Krycek's presence still clung to the sheets, as if by lying where Krycek had lain he could somehow conjure him up again, as if he could push himself back into yesterday and Krycek wouldn't really be gone. But there was no comfort here—the bed was cold, the mattress unyielding. For a long time Mulder lay in the dark, telling himself that there was no reason to be unhappy. Krycek was gone, the madness was over—at least for now, at least until the next time—and nothing had really changed, so there was nothing to regret. Until at last he turned onto his stomach, buried his face in the pillow, and wept. 

  
Days passed, and turned into weeks. Mulder determinedly turned his mind away from whatever it was that Alex Krycek was doing in his life, and back to his quest for the truth: his lost sister, his broken family, and the damaged teenaged boy in his own life, who was himself. Scully was there, calm and strong, and with the relief of two people who'd gone through a rough time and come out the other side, they treated each other with extra care and gentleness. Once again, he thought that he wouldn't have made it without her, and that perhaps he should tell her so, but there seemed no pressing need for it, so he let it go. He threw himself into his work, and when there was nothing left for work, he visited the Lone Gunmen, and watched his videos, and his life gradually returned to something that was, if not normal, at least not on the edge of insanity. 

But alone in his apartment after the day was done, he still sat on his couch in the dark, waiting out the sleepless nights, fists clenched against the images that refused to be banished from his mind: Krycek bending over Dmitri in his hospital bed, kissing away the boy's pain. Krycek lying in Mulder's bed, staring at the ceiling, whispering, _It felt like death._ Krycek on his stomach, legs open, demanding, _Do it!_

And Krycek standing in a hospital corridor, face intent and eyes sparking with pain, insisting, _I'll come back._

_No, you won't,_ Mulder always answered that image. _I don't want you to. You're a liar, and a murderer, and I never want to see you again._ (And now who's the liar? whispered in the back of his mind, another voice he tried very hard not to hear.) Inextricable relationships, for which there were no explanations and no answers, and no relief. And Krycek, weary of being disbelieved, turning away, saying, _Dos vidaniya_ —which Mulder knew meant, _Until we meet again._

  
It was around ten o'clock in the evening, nearly three weeks after Krycek and Dmitri had gone. Mulder lay on the couch, absently watching a video that, for all its panting and grunting and sweating, left him cold. He yawned and rubbed his eyes and wondered if he should turn off the television and go to bed early for a change, when there was a knock on the door. 

He sat up, instantly wide awake, heart pounding. With unreasoning certainty, he knew who it was. He nearly stumbled in his rush to the door. 

Krycek. The familiar image was like a blast of tropical heat: black leather, black jeans, bright white tee-shirt. A tentative smile that grew reluctantly but uncontrollably to joy. Big eyes wide and eager, but head lowered, with the slight tension of wariness. Krycek. 

Mulder grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, as if he were shining too brightly to leave standing in the hallway. His fingers tightened painfully around Krycek's bicep (but it was the prosthetic he'd grabbed, hard and unyielding). He brought him into the living room, then abruptly let go, and stood staring at him, unable to think. 

"Hi," Krycek said softly. The smile had turned into a grimace, gone through fear, pain, resignation, hope, wonder, and back to joy, all in the space of a few heartbeats. 

"Hi," Mulder responded, trying desperately to find his tongue. "How's Dmitri?" 

Krycek blew out a small breath of relief: something to talk about. "He's fine. He's going to be fine. We found some cousins to take him, a young married couple. Their place is small, but there's only the three of them, so they'll be all right. They took to him right away—the woman, Svetlana, especially. She thinks he's adorable." 

Mulder smiled. "She's right. What about Dmitri? Does he like them?" 

"He will." A shadow passed across Krycek's face. "It's hard for him, after everything he's been through. Losing his family... he thought he wanted to stay with me, but of course.... And how could I explain it to him?" 

"I'm sure he understands. He's a smart kid. He was just... crazy about you." 

Krycek laughed ruefully. "So much the worse for him." The laugh turned to dismay. "I didn't mean that." 

An uncomfortable silence descended. Finally, Mulder said, "It was a good thing you did for him." 

Krycek nodded. More silence. It wasn't that they had nothing to say to each other, Mulder thought. They had too much to say; they couldn't wrap their minds around it. 

Krycek stared at the floor. Carefully, he worked the glove from his right hand. Then he lifted his arm, suddenly, and touched Mulder's face; gentle fingertips just brushing his cheek. 

Mulder froze. It was as if an electric current shocked through his body. 

"I told you I'd come back," Krycek said, in that cool water voice. 

Mulder felt tears sting his eyes. "I didn't believe you." 

"I know." The hand left his face. 

He wanted to snatch it back. His fingers went involuntarily to his cheek. Then he drew a ragged breath, and said, "Why did you?" 

There was another silence. Krycek took his time, searching for the words. "Because you wanted me to," he said finally. "Because I wanted to. Because of the way you held onto me, after. Because—because I don't want things to be the way they have been between us any more." 

"Do you think we can change them?" 

"I think we already have. Just a little, but it's a start." 

No, nothing had changed, Mulder wanted to protest. But everything had changed: Krycek had come back. He'd said he would come back, and he had, and here he was, all heat and leather and wanting things to be different. Mulder tried to think about what that meant, but his mind spun away from it, refusing to accept that Krycek might be trusted, that he could be anything but an enemy. 

But he was here, dammit. Things had already changed: that was true, just because Krycek was here. 

"Will you stay?" Mulder asked. It was a hard thing to ask, and he wanted to take it back the moment it came out of his mouth, but he gritted his teeth and stood his ground, steeling himself against the inevitable hurt. 

"When I can." Mulder didn't like that—he tucked his chin and took an abortive step back, and Krycek hurried to continue, "Mulder, I have a job. And so do you. I have things I need to take care of. I'm not going to make promises I can't keep. But when I can, I'll be here." 

It was, Mulder realized, a true answer; moreover, it was the only answer he would have believed. And even more than that, he realized that he'd expected a true answer. He'd thought Krycek would be straight with him—what he was steeling himself against was not a lie, but a truth he didn't want to hear. 

And that was different, too—somehow, he'd come to expect the truth from Krycek. And Krycek would be here—maybe not every day, maybe not whenever Mulder took a notion to wanting him around, but when he could. No more waiting for six months, a year, wondering if he'd ever see him again. Another change. 

And that opened up a whole world of possibilities: if you could ask him questions, and feel confident you were getting honest answers, you could talk to him about things that had happened, and maybe find out what had really been in his mind all those years. And if he wasn't going to disappear before you'd gotten a chance to ask all your questions, then maybe— 

It all made him dizzy; it was too much to think about, too soon. But there would be time, that was the important thing. They would make their changes a little at a time, and meanwhile— 

Meanwhile, Krycek was here. Living, breathing, flesh and blood (and a little bit of plastic), dark eyes and soft mouth, leather and heat. Mulder reached out to touch him, the flat of his palm on the upper part of Krycek's chest, fingers overlapping his collarbone, hand half under the leather jacket. Through the thin cotton of Krycek's tee-shirt, he could feel the heat rising off him, and it made Mulder's breath quicken. 

He stood like that for a moment, just touching him. Krycek didn't move, but Mulder could feel the rise and fall of his chest, and he knew that Krycek's breath was quickening, too. So he took a step closer, and pulled Krycek tight against him, wrapping his arms around leather and firm muscle and warm body. It felt good, and for the moment Mulder didn't care why, only that it did. 

  
He nipped Krycek's earlobe, making him jump and giggle, a moist exhalation of breath against Mulder's cheek. "I want to fuck you," Mulder said, for the pleasure of saying it. 

"I was hoping you would." The words came out hot and breathy. Fingers dug into Mulder's back. 

He stepped back, one arm still around Krycek's shoulders, and began to lead him into the bedroom. 

* * *

Rated NC17 for explicit m/m sex.   
Krycek comes back from Russia to pay some debts. Follows "Patient X"/"The Red and the Black."   
X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended.   
Feedback: [email removed]   
---


	2. Sequel: The Lateness of the Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krycek comes back from Russia to pay some debts.

Go to notes and disclaimers 

  
**The Lateness of the Hour  
by Cody Nelson**

  
Alex Krycek shifted slightly, trying to ease the pain in his lower back. The movement only sent sharp pains radiating from his spine. He swore silently to himself and tried to relax. He wasn't used to lying on his side—his left side, especially, on top of the ruined stump of his left shoulder. In the early days after the accident (he called it an "accident" even though it had been no accident, because he didn't like to name it what it really was: his maiming. His disfigurement), when the stump was still healing and tender, he'd learned to avoid lying on his left side at all costs. And even now, when it was nothing but hard, scarred flesh, with less feeling than his undamaged shoulder, he still didn't like to lie on it. It was, well, a hard lump of flesh—it was uncomfortable, it was like lying on a baseball, and he didn't like the too-obvious reminder that there was no arm attached to that shoulder. And besides, it had been a long flight back from Russia, in coach, his back already aching when he arrived. And getting his butt thoroughly reamed out from behind, while it had felt absolutely wonderful in a hundred other ways, had not exactly been kind to his poor back. 

But, oh god, he did not want to move. Because Fox Mulder was curled up behind him, the length of his lean, strong body pressed into Krycek's back, arm wrapped around his waist, with an elbow pressing into his belly and two fingers curled tantalizingly close to his left nipple, and warm breath tickling his ear. And this was only the second time he'd ever lain with Mulder, hazy and content in the afterglow of sex, and while twice was so much sweeter and more wondrous than once, he was still wary of it, still half-expecting Mulder to turn angry and cold and order him out of his bed and out of his life, sneering at him, voice heavy with hatred, saying, _No, I don't want you, I lied, this is betrayal, how do you like it?_ The feel of Mulder, flesh and skin and the soft fuzzy hairs of his chest and groin, the sinew of arm and thigh and shoulder—it was magic, and Krycek did not want to break the contact, did not want to move away from Mulder, for fear that the spell would be broken and he would never feel it again. 

But his back was killing him. Sighing, he shifted again, hoping to move slowly and easily onto his stomach, to keep Mulder's arm around him, not to wake him. But the movement sent shooting pains down his spine, and he gasped and jerked and flopped over onto his belly like a landed fish. 

He brought Mulder over with him—arm now trapped, in a way that must be uncomfortable, under Krycek's chest, one of Mulder's thighs jammed between his legs, chest squarely on top of the stump of Krycek's left arm. It had been a vain enough hope to try to move at all without waking a light sleeper like Mulder; this would surely wake the dead. And Mulder was moving, now, pulling his arm free, lifting himself from Krycek's collapsed body. 

Gentle fingers brushed the hair at the back of his neck, sending pleasant shivers down his spine. Mulder whispered, "Alex? You okay?" 

Alex. Oh god, Mulder hadn't called him Alex since—since the day he'd borrowed Krycek's car keys and driven straight into Krycek's betrayal. Since Krycek's final, horrible day in the FBI. _Alex._

"Yeah," he managed to whisper back. "Back's a little sore." 

"Where?" Mulder's hand drifted down his spine, to lay flat and warm over the precise spot where strained muscles still twitched. "Here?" 

"Yeah." 

Mulder settled half on top of him, one leg curled comfortably across Krycek's thighs, the stump of Krycek's lost arm tucked into the hollow of his armpit. He brought his cheek down to rest on Krycek's shoulder, and began to move his hand, fingers and thumb kneading, working the sore muscles. 

"Ooh—" It felt good. It felt too good, too gentle, too generous—tears filled Krycek's eyes. He wanted to tell Mulder to stop, but he couldn't possibly. He pressed his face into the pillow and bit back sobs. 

Deep breaths, he ordered himself. One, two, three. Count to ten; relax. Yes, that was better. Mulder's hand stroked, massaged, and Krycek settled into it. Thumb and fingers pressed firmly into the muscles alongside Krycek's spine, into the hollow at the small of his back, the upward curve of his backbone as it led to the crevice between his buttocks.... 

Eventually, Mulder's hand strayed lower, no longer massaging, but stroking, teasing, cupping the round buttocks as they met sturdy thighs. Krycek smiled into the pillow and relaxed further, feeling the first pleasant tingles of arousal in his groin. Surely Mulder was too spent to want him again so soon—and that was fine; Krycek was, too—but let him play, let him enjoy the body he'd taken. Being used for sex Krycek understood, or at least he thought he did, where nothing else between him and Mulder made the least bit of sense. He hardly knew why he was here, except that Mulder had wanted him to come back after his errand to Russia, and it had seemed important to give Mulder what he wanted, as long as it didn't do any harm. That was the thing, though—what harm would come of it? You never really knew, where Mulder was concerned. Pain could come streaking out of the strangest places without warning, where Mulder was concerned. 

Still, he'd come back, despite the risk, to see whether they might somehow exorcise the demons of the past. And there were two reasons he'd thought that risk was worth taking. 

The first was what had happened after they'd had sex the first time. It had been a revenge fuck, plain and simple—he and Mulder both knew it. And that was fine with Krycek. Mulder was still searching for some way to take out his anger on Krycek; some way to ease the burning in his soul for the betrayals, the murders, the lies, the pain. In other days, Krycek had let Mulder hit him, hoping that would assuage his need to even the score, until it had become clear that no amount of beating would ever be enough, and Krycek had finally put a stop to it. So then Mulder had wanted to try sex—well, fine. At least it wasn't violent. Oh, there had been a little dirty talk. A yank on the balls. And a good, hard fucking. Not even what Krycek would call rough trade. And afterward, if Mulder had thrown him out of bed and sent him on his way, he'd have gone away satisfied that just a tiny bit of penance had been paid. 

But Mulder hadn't thrown him out. Nor had he gone to sleep the rest of the night in the other room, or even moved away to lie on the other side of the bed. No, Mulder had flung his arm across Krycek's back, settled down half on top of him, and gone to sleep. And Krycek didn't know what it meant, but he did know that it hadn't seemed quite so much like a revenge fuck any more. 

And the second reason was Mulder's reaction to the accident—Krycek's lost arm, and its prosthetic replacement—which was pure Mulder, and a balm to Krycek's wounded soul. Curious, as he was about everything. Practical. Matter of fact. _Do you want to take it off?_ he'd asked about the prosthesis. And, _I don't mind it. I just thought you might be more comfortable without it._ And tonight it had been: _How do you get this off? I want you naked. Really naked._ The prosthesis now lay on Mulder's chest of drawers, of no more interest, after a brief inspection, than the shoes and underwear lying in the floor. No shock, no horror, no pity. No cruel taunting, which was what Krycek had really expected. _So they cut off your arm—well, you deserved it, you murdering rat-bastard. At least you're still alive, which is more than you can say for my father._ How many times had he heard those words from the Mulder in his mind? How many accusations, how many confrontations, in which Mulder saw the stump for the first time, grinned viciously, and laughed? _Now your body's deformed, just like your black soul._

But, as it turned out, those were Krycek's accusations, not Mulder's. What did it feel like? was what Mulder had asked. And he had listened to Krycek's answer; his hopelessly inadequate attempt to explain what it had felt like to be held down on hard, frozen ground by half a dozen one-armed men, and to have his arm hacked off with a knife. And then Mulder had kissed him, and made love to him, and the lost arm had been insignificant, of no concern at all. 

  
So Krycek had come back. After seeing Dmitri safely to his new home in Russia, he'd come back to D.C. and straight to Mulder's apartment, scared shitless that Mulder had come to his senses in the meanwhile and would just slam the door in his face. But no—Mulder had pulled him inside, trembling like a schoolboy who can't believe the Prom Queen wants _him,_ and taken him to bed for another fucking even harder than the first. And despite the fact that it made his back ache, he couldn't be more glad. 

  
He could nearly drift off to sleep like this, being stroked and petted. The shooting pains in his back had eased, leaving only a little stiffness. A good night's sleep in a comfortable bed and he'd be good as new. 

—And then Mulder's roving fingers slipped between Krycek's buttocks, sliding through the lubricant that remained from the time before, teasing at his anus. Krycek squirmed and giggled. Randy devil, Mulder, he thought. 

Mulder brought his mouth next to Krycek's ear, and whispered softly, "I want to fuck you." 

It was the third time Krycek had heard those words from Mulder. The first time, three weeks ago, they had been harsh, almost a curse. Tonight, when Krycek had first arrived, a desperate plea. Now, a heated whisper, a come-on, an invitation. And each time, an electric current through Krycek's body. He could feel his hips rising in response. 

But. "Love to, Mulder. But my back is killing me. I don't think I can take another fucking like that tonight." 

Mulder's finger pushed in, wriggling. Krycek's fingers curled, digging into the mattress. 

"I'll go easy this time," Mulder offered. Still in that hot, smoky whisper, moist words directly into Krycek's ear. So. Offer Mulder a blow job? Tell him to go to sleep? Or... ? 

Hips tipped up, half on his knees, hand braced against the wall to keep himself from being slammed into it by Mulder's thrusts, cock driving into him, so deep he could almost feel it in his throat.... 

"Easy, huh?" 

"Promise." 

Alex sighed. "Fuck me, Mulder." 

  
And that was one of the dangers—it was just too easy to say yes to Mulder. _Yes, I'll let you fuck me. Yes, I'll stay. Yes, I'll make things right between us._ Too easy. Too tempting to let it go too far, to cross the thin, thin line he was walking between Mulder and his employers. _Yes, I'll tell you what your enemies are up to. Yes, I'll help you fight them._ Mulder would ask for too much, not knowing what it could cost them, and any answer Krycek might give could make it all fall apart. _Yes, I'll risk my life and your life and the lives of everyone on the planet to make you feel good...._ Too damned much was at stake for him to let his guard down. He'd made too many mistakes already. 

—Oh, god, that felt good. Mulder's long, slender fingers, cool and slick with lubricant, eased into him. He was still relaxed from the time before, warm and happy, ready for it to happen again, and again— 

And he could try, but there was really no hope he could prevent the Syndicate from finding out he was seeing Mulder. They'd try to stop him, or worse—they'd expect him to spy on Mulder. It would be like the FBI all over again, except that this time around he would know better than to trust them. And Mulder—would he want Krycek to tell him what he knew? Would he be satisfied to leave Krycek's work out of whatever it was between them? No doubt there would be questions. Demands. Recriminations. They hadn't even begun to settle things, not really. Did he really imagine that Mulder might ever forgive him for everything he'd done? 

But the man kissing the back of his neck certainly wasn't acting like a man with an unforgivable grudge. And Krycek was finding it harder and harder to worry about it. 

  
Mulder kept his promise, with a pillow under Krycek's hips to ease the angle of entry, with long, slow, strokes of his cock, and hands that continued to massage and knead Krycek's shoulders. So slow, so sweet and good, that Krycek felt himself drifting away, lost in a haze of pleasure, relaxed and motionless—not because he was tired, but because it was all too perfect to move. 

Unimaginably, he felt the heat begin to build again in his groin, spreading through his belly and thighs. Surely, he'd thought, he wouldn't come again tonight—just lying under Mulder, feeling Mulder's cock sliding in and out of his ass, was pleasure enough—but his cock had other ideas. Without conscious intention, his hips began to move, ever so slightly, pushing back into Mulder's thrusts, rubbing his throbbing cock against the pillow under him. And the rush of arousal continued to build, spreading throughout his body, until even his fingertips tingled, and the gasping breaths that echoed in his ears were his own. 

His orgasm, when it came, was the clear, sweet peal of a bell, ringing through him in waves, spilling out of his cock in bright pulses, vibrations lingering in his body for long moments after. He could feel his sphincter throbbing on Mulder's cock, and Mulder's fingers digging into his shoulders, and Mulder's hot breath on his neck. And then, with a groan, Mulder drove into him, and again, and again, moving his hands down to grip Krycek's hips, still thrusting with long, slow strokes, but deep and hard, until he gasped and pulled Krycek's hips up and emptied into him. 

Mulder collapsed on top of him. Krycek sighed, and turned his head, trying to reach around for a kiss. Mulder obliged him. 

"You're going to wear me out," Krycek whispered, his consciousness already dissolving into sleep. 

Mulder's only response was a papery chuckle, fading half into a snore. Then he groaned, and lifted his body off of Krycek's, reaching down to roll the condom off his softening cock. "God, I hate condoms," he muttered, as he reached over the side of the bed to find the wastebasket. "Tell me you've been tested." 

Krycek pushed himself onto his side—his right side, fortunately, so he had an elbow to prop himself up on—and regarded Mulder warily. "I have. Last time was when I was in the hospital. I'm negative. Don't tell me you trust me." 

Mulder stared back at him. Even in the half-dark, there was a strange, hard glint in his eye. "Maybe. About this. You're in more danger than I am, anyway." 

Well, that ended that pretty little interlude. "Assuming I'm always going to be on the bottom. And that I trust you." 

It truly hadn't occurred to Mulder that Krycek might worry about Mulder infecting him; Krycek could see it in his face. It was endearing, in a pig-headed sort of way. "I'm negative." There was a slightly reproachful tone in Mulder's voice. "You don't believe me?" 

"I believe you. But let's just use the condoms, okay? I hate them, too, but, hell, we've got enough to worry about. At least we don't have to use Russian ones." 

That brought a tiny smile to Mulder's face. He nodded. "Okay. I see your point." He settled back in bed, began to pull Krycek towards him. 

Lying on Mulder's chest, Krycek sighed deeply and tried to relax. He was on the wrong side, with his arm jammed under him against Mulder's side, and his stump where he would have wanted an arm to curl around Mulder's chest. He tried not to think about it. All right, they'd had the Condom Talk, and come to an agreement, and everything was all right. It was a good sign, he insisted to himself. They could talk things over without disaster. This thing between them, whatever it was, wasn't going to crumble up and blow away at the slightest hint of conflict. Which was good, because there was no way they were going to avoid conflict. 

Still, there was a slight adrenaline flutter in his stomach as he lay there, a niggling impediment to the hot, sticky pleasure of having Mulder's arms around him, Mulder's chest under his, and the memory of Mulder's cock in his ass. He told himself it was foolish to let it upset him; they hadn't even raised their voices. But things between them were so damned fragile, any tiny crack was a potential crisis. And it wasn't only Krycek's paranoia—he could feel Mulder's heart beating against his chest, rapidly enough to tell the tale of Mulder's own anxiety. 

But they were here, together, in Mulder's bed. For tonight, that was enough. In fact, that was a miracle. 

  
It was hours later when Krycek awoke. The night had gone full dark; it was, perhaps, three a.m. His temples were tight with exhaustion, but his mind was spinning. Jet lag, he thought. What time was it in Moscow? He tried for a moment to calculate it, then gave it up as a bad job. Mulder had rolled over with the blanket, leaving Krycek uncovered and cold. He didn't feel inclined to do anything about it, though—any attempt to retrieve the blanket would wake Mulder, and besides, he was accustomed to sleeping through various kinds of discomfort. He just needed to get used to the time difference, that was all. 

Although... maybe he could slide over a little, and warm himself against Mulder's body. If he was slow and careful, he might not wake Mulder. Too bad he was still on the wrong side of Mulder—well, the wrong side for lying facing Mulder and putting an arm around him, anyway, which would be a nice thing to be able to do. But he wasn't about to try to switch sides, not even if Mulder had been already awake and willing—it was just too damned humiliating to have to crawl over a bed partner to accommodate his missing arm. 

But it was the right side for facing away from Mulder, and pressing his back and butt against Mulder's body. Which was also a nice thing, and seemed to be the way Mulder preferred him, anyway. He shifted carefully onto his side, and began to edge back towards Mulder. 

He had barely come into contact with Mulder's hip when he heard the change in Mulder's breathing, felt a hot hand on his shoulder. 

"You're cold," Mulder said, voice muzzy with sleep. Krycek felt Mulder moving behind him, rearranging the blanket over him. "I've been hogging the covers." Then Mulder was pulling him close, tucking his warm body up behind Krycek's, encircling him with one arm. "Better?" 

Better? It was unimaginable. Why was Mulder being so damned nice to him? It scared the shit out of him. There had to be a catch. Krycek shivered once, violently, then his whole body seemed to melt into the soft, sweet warmth. "Yeah," he managed to answer, his voice ragged. He hoped Mulder would think it was only the lateness of the hour. 

This couldn't be for real, Krycek thought. Where was the angry Mulder, the bitter Mulder? The one who took potshots at him, dragged him around in handcuffs, hurled insults with every breath? He wasn't gone, Krycek knew. Not even the best sex in the world could make a man forget the kinds of things Krycek had done—helping abduct Mulder's partner and best friend, nearly getting her killed, helping to kill her sister, killing Mulder's father. He had reasons for doing all those things; reasons he hoped one day to make Mulder understand, but he expected it to be a long and arduous process, full of recriminations and pain. He didn't expect Mulder to just put the past aside, as if it had never happened. Either Mulder was deliberately faking it, trying to earn Krycek's trust in order to return the betrayal later, or else he was in major denial about the past, and would avoid dealing with it until it was forced on him. Either way, there was a major blowup waiting for them down the road, and it was not going to be pretty. 

So he supposed he ought to be grateful for whatever small comfort he could grab along the way. And, despite his suspicions, he couldn't really believe that Mulder might be faking all this. Mulder, who wore his heart on his sleeve, could never hide his real feelings from anyone, with the possible exception of himself. Which meant it was denial, and it was going to be all the worse for Mulder when he was finally forced to confront the full range of his feelings towards Krycek. But it also meant there was hope that once those feelings had been worked through, there might be something left for them to build on. 

  
When Krycek woke again, it was morning. Or, at least, the external evidence told him it was morning, although his body didn't seem to think so; but the room had grown light, and Mulder was disentangling himself from the covers and getting out of bed. Krycek forced one eye open. His attempt to say "Good morning" was just a low rattle in his throat. 

Mulder stopped, just out of bed, a tentative smile half-formed on his mouth. "Don't get up. I'm just going out for a run." His face dissolved into uncertainty. He nibbled on his lower lip. "I'll bring back breakfast?" 

This was all the farther they'd gotten the first time, Krycek thought. One night, and then Krycek had had to leave for Russia, to take Dmitri home. So now was the test: this time, would they get any farther? He nodded. "Okay." 

Mulder's smile widened slightly. He proceeded to pull on sweats and sneakers, and then slipped out the door. 

  
It was McDonalds' takeout for breakfast: Egg McMuffins, hash browns, orange juice and coffee. They sat down to eat in Mulder's kitchen; Mulder still in his sweats, face flushed from his exertion, hair damp and spiky, while Krycek was freshly showered and dressed, having been unable to sleep after Mulder left, despite his continued exhaustion. They ate mostly in silence, their only conversation consisting of "Sleep well?" "Good run?" and other such small talk. Finally, when there was nothing left but empty cups and paper wrappers, Mulder sat back, frowned, and nodded. 

"Well. I've got to get ready for work. You can stay... if you'd like." 

Krycek tried to smile. "I'd like. But I need to check in with my people." 

"Haven't you done that yet?" 

"No. I came straight here from the airport." 

Mulder's face brightened for a moment. Then his mouth tightened. "What about... later?" 

"I don't know. I'll call you. What time do you think you'll get home?" 

Mulder looked around, shrugged. "I don't know. You have my cell number, don't you?" 

"Yeah." Krycek stood up, ran his tongue over his lips. "I'll call." 

Mulder nodded. But his expression was bleak. The image of Mulder in his dirty sweats, sitting at his kitchen table surrounded by the wreckage of their fast food breakfast, staring blankly up at him, lingered in Krycek's vision long after he left the apartment. 

* * *

The Englishman's New York apartment was as crisp and elegant as the man himself. The breakfast nook, where they were now seated, was light and sunny, with white eyelet curtains framing the tall windows brightening two walls of the corner room. The breakfast table was well-polished white pine, carefully set with a clean white crochet-trimmed cloth, on which lay a silver tea service and porcelain cups. Krycek had been offered boiled eggs and toast and jam, which he'd declined, although he had accepted a hand-painted cup of Earl Grey tea. It was quite a contrast to the formica table in Mulder's kitchen, with its litter of McDonalds wrappings. Krycek wished he were back there. 

The Englishman had told Krycek to call him Smith. John Smith. Krycek had wanted to laugh, but had only nodded. Smith. Jones—that was what his former patron, the cigarette-smoking bastard, had wanted Krycek to call him. What was this obsession with aliases and titles, instead of names? Well, no matter. If the man wanted to be Smith, Krycek would call him Smith. 

"You've seen Mulder," the man commented, in his smooth, cultured voice. 

Krycek looked up, startled, nearly spilling his tea. "What makes you think so?" 

"I've no objection to it. Your relationship with him may be of some use." 

"Relationship?" Krycek could feel his face grow hot. "I don't have any relationship with Mulder." He was surprised by his own bitterness. No relationship? After he'd just spent the night with him? 

Smith's brief smile was rueful, almost gentle. "Of course you do. That's why I sent you to talk to him about the rebel alien, rather than attempting to do it myself. I knew it would have more effect coming from you." 

"He hates me." And that was undeniably true, regardless of what had happened between them since. 

"Yes, he does. His hatred for you is quite intense. Rather startlingly so, considering the number of other, worse enemies he has, for whom his hatred is far less. It makes one wonder what else he feels toward you, besides hate." 

_That's what I'm trying to find out,_ Krycek thought. He said nothing. 

"As I say," the Englishman continued, "I have no objection to it. As long as it doesn't interfere with our work." 

"It won't. It doesn't have anything to do with our work. And...." He paused. He should just leave it at that, he knew. But, hell, in for a penny, in for a pound, as his colleague would say—"That goes both ways. Our work shouldn't interfere with whatever happens between me and Mulder. It's... personal." 

The man smiled. Something in his face softened, ever so slightly. "Yes, of course it is. Don't lose that, Mr. Krycek. It becomes too easy in our business to forget that the personal is, ultimately, what we are fighting for. But you must be careful. Mulder is not exactly a disinterested party to our cause." 

"I know." God, he knew. It was a very fine line he was walking. A knife edge. 

"Well, we'll keep it our little secret for now. I have it in mind to bring you back into the group. Since your previous patron disappeared...." 

"Disappeared? I thought he was dead." Word had come all the way to Russia, when that man had been reported dead. Krycek had celebrated with a bottle of Stoli. Krycek wanted him to be dead, that cigarette-smoking bastard. 

"There was a great deal of blood found in his apartment, but no body. I believe we've located him, in Quebec. I may want you to go there and bring him back at some point. But there's no hurry. As long as he believes he's safe, he'll stay where he is." 

"So let him stay there." Hiding out in Canada, was he? The fingers of Krycek's prosthetic hand dug into the table, unnoticed. 

"He may be useful. He's a weapon, Mr. Krycek, and you do not discard a weapon lightly. Especially not when the odds are against you, and you have so few weapons available to you." The man's gaze hardened. He lifted his napkin to his lips. "Just as I did not discard you, after I got the vaccine." 

Krycek felt his face go red again. The nerves in his right wrist still tingled with the memory of long hours handcuffed to a bulkhead deep in the hold of the Star of Russia, where the Englishman had kept him, until he'd finally given up the vaccine. "You said you wanted to bring me back into the group." 

"Yes." The Englishman's smile was hard, but there was a glint of amusement in his eye. "Now that we have the vaccine, and have lost one of our most hard-line collaborationists, not to mention the appearance on the scene of the alien rebels, the lines of power are shifting within our group. There has even been the suggestion that we might want to reestablish contact with our Russian counterparts. You could be very useful there." 

Krycek laughed shortly. "I'd think I'd be the last one you'd want to contact the Russians." After he'd stolen the vaccine from them, and left one of their doctors hanging from the rafters.... 

Smith just shrugged. "Things change. Not long ago, you might have laughed at the idea of rejoining our group, and yet here you are. You've just come back from Russia; how did you find things there?" 

This time, the shock was too deep to hide. Krycek put down his cup, slid his chair back, hand poised to go for his gun. "You knew about the whole thing." 

His hand waved dismissively. "Relax, Mr. Krycek. Yes, we knew the boy had survived the attack on the bridge. And that you took him back to Russia. It's not a problem. If we'd wanted to stop you, we would have." 

"How did you find out?" Krycek let his hand drop, but he didn't move his chair back to the table. 

"Information is my specialty. You know that. Please don't concern yourself—I was glad to see you do it." 

"Why?" 

The man paused to sip his tea, staring thoughtfully out the window at the crisp spring morning. "Your former patron was a man who thought that any show of sentiment was a weakness. I believe he did his best to teach you to think that as well. If I thought he'd succeeded, I wouldn't be interested in bringing you back into the group. It's my belief that our emotional ties are our greatest strength." He turned back to Krycek, setting down his teacup with a self-deprecating laugh. Then his face grew serious. "I have grandchildren that boy's age." 

_And children mine,_ Krycek thought suddenly, though he didn't say it. "Then why didn't you do it yourself?" 

"It seemed important to you to do it. Besides, you were much better equipped to find him a home in Russia than I would have been. You did find him a good home, didn't you?" 

"As good as any in Russia these days." 

Smith nodded briskly. "Good. Now, before I make any further plans for you, I think perhaps we ought to discuss the matter of your... physical limitations." 

For the third time, Krycek's face blazed. His mouth tightened grimly. "What limitations?" 

"Please don't be angry. I know you're still quite capable. But I don't wish to ask you to do anything that might require physical abilities you no longer have...." 

"I can do anything I could do before," Krycek insisted hotly. He was lying, and he knew it. "So don't worry about it." 

The man regarded him for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. Forgive me." 

Krycek tried to force himself to relax. His heart pounded. He nodded back. 

"Well," Smith said, "I think that's all for now. I want you to come back here this afternoon at three o'clock. There's a meeting I want you to attend. Do you have a place to stay in town?" 

"Yes." He didn't, but he'd find one. He pushed himself to his feet. "I'll see you at three." 

  
Krycek sat in a booth at a diner, taking his time with a bowl of soup and a large glass of milk. There was plenty of time before three o'clock, and he was a bit at loose ends in New York. He probably ought to call Mulder; it was looking highly unlikely he'd make it back to D.C. tonight. But perhaps he'd wait until after this meeting the Englishman wanted him to attend. It might not last long; there might still be time to catch the shuttle back. 

But perhaps that wouldn't be such a good idea. Perhaps he ought to give Mulder a little time to get used to the idea that Krycek had come back at all, before he showed up again. Give them both a chance to think about how they wanted to proceed. He had to admit he was still a little rattled about the way Mulder had come on to him, as if nothing bad had ever happened between them. He didn't trust it. He worried that Mulder was setting them both up for a fall. And he was rattled about Smith knowing about his visit with Mulder, too. Not that he'd expected to be able to hide it for long, but damn it, he hadn't expected the man to know about it before he'd even called to tell him he was back. Sure, he seemed okay with it for now, but Krycek just didn't like knowing he couldn't make a move without the Syndicate's watchdog finding out about it. 

Idly, he shifted his spoon into his prosthetic hand, and dipped it into his bowl of soup. The spoon flipped out of the plastic fingers and clattered to the tabletop. _And I can do anything I could do before, he mocked himself angrily. Jesus._

  
It was nearly midnight when Krycek settled into his cheap hotel room, so exhausted he was crosseyed, after spending all afternoon and half the night at a meeting in which everything had been said in the first hour, and the rest of the time had been spent saying those same things over and over and over again. Krycek had been introduced, looked over, accused and questioned, and then discussed at length, while he stood by, stiff and humiliated and glared down whenever he tried to speak for himself. He supposed it was necessary, as his new patron had repeatedly told him on the drive back to his apartment, but to Krycek it had felt like a colossal and painful waste of time. Clumsily, he shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and then he collapsed across the bed. It had been a long day, and his head still ached. He was going to sleep all day tomorrow. 

—Damn. Mulder. He'd promised he'd call. He rolled over and scrabbled for his jacket on the floor, pulling his cell phone from the pocket. He punched in Mulder's number with his thumb, too tired to try to manipulate the prosthetic arm. 

"Mulder," came the answer. 

"Hey, Mulder." He rolled over onto his back, yawning. "How was your day?" 

"It was all right." Mulder's voice was tentative, wary. "How was yours?" 

"Long. Tiring. Look... it looks like I'm going to be pretty busy for the next couple of days. I'm not sure when I'll be able to get back to D.C." 

"Oh." It sounded as if someone had let the air out of him. 

"Maybe this weekend. I'll keep in touch. Okay?" 

"Yeah. Sure." 

Krycek cursed silently. Mulder obviously wasn't buying it. Krycek wanted to protest, _You can believe me, Mulder. I came back, didn't I? I kept my promise._ But that would be pointless. Mulder needed more time. He needed more chances to see that Krycek would do what he said he was going to do. But Krycek couldn't bear the hopeless tone in Mulder's voice. "Here, let me give you my number." He firmly put down the stab of reluctance to give up this private information. If he wanted Mulder to trust him, he was going to have to give him a little trust in return. He read off his cell phone number. 

Mulder repeated it. Then, "So... maybe this weekend?" There was a little more animation in his voice. 

Krycek allowed himself to smile. "Yeah. Sooner if I can. I just have to get some things settled." 

"Okay. Well. I'll talk to you later." 

Krycek switched off the phone, reached out to let it fall onto the nightstand, already drifting into sleep. 

  
He woke again in the deep chasm of the night, still in his clothes on top of the bed covers. Krycek shivered and groaned and curled up on his side, trying to get comfortable enough to go back to sleep. The image from the night before suddenly filled his senses: Mulder pulling the blanket over him, tucking his body around him, circling him with his arm. Warmth and softness and safety. He gasped with the strength of his desire, felt his arm reaching out for the body he wanted so badly it surely must be there. Mulder. He clawed for a pillow, pulled it to his chest. He felt desolate in his lonely bed. 

Then he pushed the pillow aside, struggled upright, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed to sit with his fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose. What a fool, he told himself. He was acting like a man who'd had a lover and lost him. When in fact he didn't have Mulder at all, but in time, if all went impossibly well, he might. And he would see Mulder again soon. He would sleep again in Mulder's bed, with Mulder's body next to his. Soon. 

Meanwhile, if he wanted to be covered, he was going to have to cover himself. Krycek forced himself to his feet and undressed, dropping his clothes carelessly onto the floor, and laying his prosthesis on the chest of drawers. Then he crawled under the covers. He lay on his back for a moment, staring up into the dark. Then he sighed, stuffed one of the pillows down under the covers, and leaned his back into it. 

He was still cold. But he was used to being cold. He closed his eyes, and slowly found his way back to sleep. 

* * *

"What do you know about the Russian vaccine, Mr. Krycek?" 

Krycek nodded to the group, then stood up to address them. He'd returned with Smith to another meeting—of the full group this time. He was officially welcomed back into the fold, and now it was time for his brain to be picked. 

Half the Elders sat attentively in their elegant leather wing chairs and silk-upholstered easy chairs. The other half, including the First Elder, a thick-necked Canadian with a voice like Marlon Brando's, stood here and there around the room, some moving restlessly, others conferring privately in corners. Some, Krycek thought, had been against his being allowed to rejoin them, and were deliberately ignoring him. He did not intend to make it easy for them. 

"The vaccine provides protection from a single exposure to the black oil in eighty percent of the cases. More than fifty percent are protected from multiple exposures. Some have remained immune for up to ten exposures." 

That got their attention. There was a collective intake of breath from around the room, then a quiet murmur of voices. 

"We had no idea they'd been so successful!" the Elder from Germany exclaimed. "Why do they withhold the vaccine, and continue to experiment, if they've come so far?" 

"It's not good enough, in their opinion. Twenty percent of those inoculated still have no protection at all. The colonists have a pool of six billion humans to draw from, after all. And twenty percent of six billion is more than enough for them to execute a takeover. Also, even among the test subjects with the strongest protection, the vaccine fails eventually after repeated exposures." 

"You mean they become susceptible to invasion by the black oil?" asked the Italian Elder. 

"No, in most cases, they die. Their immune systems can no longer withstand the assault. The Russians have been unable to develop a vaccine that protects permanently from infection." 

The murmurs now had tones of disappointment in them. "But at least, they are not all colonized?" the German Elder said. 

"No. The Russians estimate that around seventy percent of those vaccinated will eventually die before being colonized by the black oil. And some will stay alive and protected through many repeat exposures. It's an encouraging result—but not good enough to ensure our survival." 

The First Elder nodded. His quiet voice brought silence to the room. "What is their goal?" 

"At least some measure of protection for close to one hundred percent of those vaccinated. Complete, permanent protection for some substantial proportion of test subjects—twenty to thirty percent or so. So that none will fall to the colonists, and at least some will survive indefinitely. They believe that that will enable them to have some chance of success against the invasion." Krycek crossed his arms, and looked around the room with grim satisfaction. He had everyone's attention now. 

Finally, Smith joined the discussion. "What about delivery?" 

Krycek nodded. "They have a separate division working on the problem. I wasn't as closely involved with them, and don't know the details of what they're working on. It would be easier for the Russians to institute a mass inoculation program with no questions asked than it would be for us. But, of course, it would still be a major undertaking to get enough of the population vaccinated to protect themselves against an attack before the aliens found out and put a stop to it. I don't believe they have an answer yet." 

"Perhaps the answer is to use the vaccine offensively, as a weapon of attack, rather than merely as passive protection." This was from a small, bird-like man near the back of the room whom Krycek didn't know. 

There were murmurs of agreement with this. Then, Smith said, "But first, we must have the weapon." 

  
The discussion moved on to the subject of their own tests with the vaccine, and Krycek settled in one of the easy chairs to listen. He couldn't help the twinge of vengeful pleasure when he learned that Marita Covarrubias had barely survived her own encounter with the black oil, and was now being sequestered and subjected to more tests. But it was only a slight twinge, and quickly put aside. He hadn't any real right to be angry with her, he knew. He'd been using her as much as she'd been using him. And, ironically, her intention had apparently been to turn Dmitri over to Mulder. He couldn't really fault her choice of men to betray him to. If he'd known of her intentions, maybe they could have worked out something satisfactory to them both. 

"But why were the Russians so determined to destroy our vaccine program?" the German Elder asked in sudden exasperation. "Surely, they would be as happy if we developed a successful vaccine." 

Krycek decided there was no need for him to stand this time. "They weren't trying to destroy our program—they just wanted to eliminate any possible connection between their program and ours. They worried that the hard-line collaborationists within our group would betray them to the colonists." 

"And now?" 

"They abandoned the Tunguska site immediately after Agent Mulder's escape from the facility, and moved their program to another location. There are only a few researchers finishing up at the Tunguska installation now." He felt a strange little lurch in his stomach at saying Mulder's name out loud in this company. He glanced quickly toward Smith, but the man's expression was bland and noncommittal. He hoped that meant that his brief reaction had gone unnoticed, not merely that Smith was better at disguising his feelings than Krycek. 

"Do you know where their new testing site is?" 

"No." Actually, he had a pretty good idea. But, he decided, it would be better to hold a little in reserve. He'd only been back in the Syndicate for one day—he didn't want to outlive his usefulness too quickly. Besides, he wasn't sure the Russians weren't right to hide their vaccine program from their former associates. Krycek was himself of the opinion that some of the collaborationists in the Syndicate—including his former patron, the nicotine-loving "Mr. Jones," were far too quick to curry favor with the colonists, and would not hesitate to betray the Russian program to them if they thought it would gain them personal advantage. 

Several of the Elders frowned, as if they suspected that Krycek was holding out on them. But they said nothing. Krycek gave them his most wide-eyed look of sincerity and settled back in his chair. 

  
That night, in his spare hotel room, he lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling, any hint of sleep far away. The events of the past few days continued to play over in his mind. It was all happening too fast: the new relationship with Mulder, rejoining the Syndicate, the partially successful vaccine, the rebel aliens—but then, when had events not run fast and furious? Krycek had always been able to hit the ground running, to think on his feet, to narrow down his focus to what was vital right now and act without second thoughts and overanalyzing. He would continue to do so. Yes, the stakes were rising, and so was the level of complexity, and the urgency—but he would handle it all, as he always did. 

But the one thing that continued to niggle at him, to make him question and wonder, and even to fear, was something so tiny, so seemingly insignificant, he could almost convince himself it had never really happened—except that when he thought of it, he felt his face flush and his heart pound and his palms begin to sweat. 

It was the moment he'd spoken Mulder's name aloud in the Syndicate meeting. He told himself over and over again that no one had noticed the slight flutter he'd felt in his gut when his lips had formed the name of the man whose body had so recently covered his. His voice hadn't cracked; the tone hadn't changed. His hands had remained still and calm at his sides. If his heartbeat had quickened momentarily, it had been a brief and invisible reaction. 

And even if any of them had noticed the almost imperceptible intake of breath, or the tiny glance at Mr. Smith, what could they have made of it? It was well known that he and Mulder had a history of an intense and personal kind. Anger, vengefulness, rivalry—these were passions, too, and could easily be the cause of any flicker of emotion on his part. 

But. That there had been any reaction at all, however unnoticeable or unattributable—that was what unnerved him. That he had not been able to shut down that part of himself to concentrate on the business at hand. That the warm, sensual vibration of Mulder's name in his mouth had suddenly and unstoppably evoked the presence of the man himself, enveloping him with the sensation of velvety skin, hot mouth, hands and hips and cock. 

When had it happened? When had that passion overtaken him, become something he could no longer put away when it was time to think of other things? He'd always found Mulder attractive, there was no question of that. The sad, soulful eyes, the full, cupid's bow mouth, the lean, graceful form: yes, Mulder had always been easy on the eyes. He'd considered it one of the perks of the assignment, back when he'd been playing the FBI-puppy; a nice bit of scenery, a pretty man to look at. And certainly, he'd enjoyed Mulder's company, as well—the quirky, self-deprecating sense of humor; the sharp wit, the intelligence and curiosity. He'd amused himself with the occasional fantasy; even wondered whether he ought to make a move—after all, getting close to Mulder was what he'd been hired to do—but he hadn't. He'd told himself that Mulder was straight and there was no telling how he'd react to sexual advances from his male partner—although Mulder was charmingly non-judgmental, and there were even hints of youthful experiments with the boys at Oxford, so the idea didn't seem entirely fanciful. But the truth was that Krycek hadn't really wanted to take Mulder as a lover back then—not as a spy doing a job, not with the betrayal he knew was to come. He'd been content to enjoy the man's presence, the shared smiles, the hand on his arm, the shoulders pressed together as they hunched over some computer monitor or microfiche reader, and wanted nothing more. 

So it hadn't been then, not when they were partners and perhaps something could have been done about it before the betrayals colored everything with dark anger and pain. And after that, Krycek was on his own and caught up in far more than he'd ever dreamed. Soon he was running for his life, and Mulder had become a bittersweet memory, and even the fantasies had gone by the wayside. Their few brief encounters—outside Mulder's apartment the night after Bill Mulder's murder, Hong Kong, Tunguska—were highly charged, to be sure, but only with madness and fury. The face leering into his with hatred, the fists smashing into his face, were not objects of desire. 

But then had come Russia, bleak Siberian autumn, and he'd been held down onto the cold, cold ground, assaulted with fists and knees and hard, terrible faces, and a hot knife sliced into his shoulder with a crushing pain beyond anything he could possibly have imagined. And then fire had come from the sky in Kazakhstan, destroying the abductees the colonists had so carefully prepared for the takeover, leaving one frightened and desolate boy alive among the rubble. The damaged, one-armed man had taken the Russian orphan and begun to formulate a wild and desperate plan that led from Kazakhstan to Vladivostok to New York and improbably—yet somehow inevitably—back to Mulder. 

Was it the loss of his arm? The hopeless pleading on the violated face of a young boy? Something had changed him. Something had cut him open inside and set free things he'd kept locked away for years. Because when he'd seen Mulder next, that night in Mulder's apartment, nothing was the same, not the feel of the floor beneath his feet, or the shadows moving along the walls, or even the air filling the room. The gun he'd held on Mulder felt huge and almost alive in his hand. The breath from Mulder's lungs had floated between them, caressing his face. And, as he delivered his message, everything had seemed to shift and reform until he felt that he was in an absurdist play, and he'd wanted to laugh and put down his gun and sit beside Mulder and say, _What a mess we've made of things._

What he actually had done was barely any less ridiculous: he'd leaned forward to kiss Mulder's cheek. Then he'd handed Mulder his gun and turned his back and walked away, as if there had never been any threat between them. 

And now here he was in a hotel room, back in the Syndicate, with a war raging between alien factions and the first promise of a vaccine against the black oil, and his life in as much danger as it had ever been, and all he could think of was Mulder, and the hot desire rising in him. It was going to be a disaster, he thought. He was going to get himself killed. 

* * *

Several more days passed. He didn't call Mulder again; he wanted to give himself a little space to think. Besides, he had nothing to say except that he wasn't able to return yet, which would only mean more disappointment and awkwardness for them both. He'd told Mulder perhaps the weekend, so he would wait until then to check in again. 

He spent his days in discussions with his new patron: about the vaccine, the Russians, the rebels and the possibility of an alliance. Neither Mulder's name nor Krycek's handicap were mentioned again, but both subjects remained just below the surface, conspicuous in the careful way they talked around them. 

Smith gave him money. Krycek felt odd about that, since in his opinion he hadn't done anything that warranted payment yet. But there was no denying he needed it—he'd used up all his reserves and favors getting Dmitri out of the country, and would have ended up at the YMCA if he hadn't found another source of income. So he took what was offered as an advance against future services, and used it sparingly, continuing to stay at the same cheap hotel, buying only a few changes of clothing for himself, and the occasional meals he didn't eat at Smith's. He made himself useful in whatever ways he could, acting as Smith's driver and running errands for him, knowing at the back of his mind that he was doing it to prove that he could, as much as to earn his keep. 

When Friday came, he told Smith he was going back to D.C., steeling himself against the Englishman's reaction. But the man only nodded agreeably and told him to keep in touch; he hadn't any particular assignments on tap, and could stay in D.C. until needed. Unspoken was the suggestion that having someone in close contact with Mulder might turn out to be useful. Krycek frowned, but left his own warning that he would do nothing to compromise Mulder unspoken as well. 

Back in his hotel room, he threw his few belongings into a duffel bag, and sat on the bed contemplating his cell phone. Now that the moment had finally arrived, he found himself strangely reluctant to call. It was mid-afternoon, and Mulder would be at work. If he called Mulder's home number, he'd have to leave a message on the machine, and he didn't want to do that. If he called Mulder's cell phone, though, he might catch him in the middle of something, busy at work or with people around, in a situation where he'd find a phone call from Krycek inconvenient and distracting. He could just wait and call Mulder when he got to Washington. But he didn't want to call at the last minute; he wanted to let Mulder know he was coming. 

Krycek sighed, and dialed Mulder's cell number. Two rings later, Mulder answered. His voice was at once heartbreakingly familiar and utterly shocking. For a moment, Krycek sat frozen, unable to speak. Then he sucked in a breath, and said softly, "Hey, Mulder." 

Now, it seemed it was Mulder's turn to freeze. Or perhaps he was just moving out of earshot of his company. "What's up?" Mulder said brusquely. 

"I'm on my way to D.C. I'll be there in a couple of hours." He looked at his watch, made a mental calculation. "Probably be at your place around eight. That is, if you don't have other plans." 

There was another pause. "No. I mean, yeah, okay. I'll see you tonight." He disconnected without saying goodbye. 

Krycek switched off his phone, lips pressed together, heart pounding. He shouldn't have called Mulder at work. He'd obviously caught him off guard. Perhaps Mulder didn't really want him to come, but couldn't talk in front of Scully or whoever was there, and agreed just to get rid of him. 

Or perhaps Mulder did want him to come, just as badly as ever, but found himself as tongue-tied and out of breath at the sound of Krycek's voice as Krycek was at Mulder's. And Krycek was going drive himself crazy fretting over it. Just go, he told himself. Once he got to Mulder's, and they'd had a chance to get used to each other again, everything would be fine. 

  
But when he got to Washington, a new dilemma arose. Should he bring his duffel bag with him to Mulder's, or find someplace to stash it until he was sure of his welcome? He hoped he'd be spending the night, of course, but it might seem presumptuous of him to show up at Mulder's door with his luggage in hand, and he didn't want Mulder to think he was taking the situation for granted. But there was nowhere convenient to leave it: there weren't any lockers handy to Mulder's, and he didn't want to waste the money on a hotel if he wasn't going to stay there. 

He worried at it all the way to Alexandria, then finally sighed and cursed himself for a fool and slung his bag over his shoulder. He had to stop this. If he were only any ordinary thirty-three-year-old man who found himself acting like a lovestruck teenager, the situation would be merely laughable, but as it was, it was dangerous and stupid. He was an adult; Mulder was an adult; if they couldn't get past these minor awkwardnesses, how in heaven could he hope they'd ever get past the real horrific obstacles between them? 

  
He tapped on Mulder's door with the knuckles of his prosthetic hand; a flat, plastic sound. His other hand was sweating. 

The door opened. Mulder stood there, in jeans and a pale rose-colored tee-shirt, with white athletic socks on his feet. He looked like ice cream, Krycek thought. Cool and creamy and delectable. Krycek realized that he was grinning foolishly. 

Mulder grinned back. "Hi," he said, and stood aside to let Krycek come in. 

  
They stood in the living room staring at each other. This is where I came in, Krycek thought. He saw Mulder's gaze travel down his form, linger for a moment on the duffel bag hanging from his shoulder. 

"I came straight here," Krycek hastened to explain. "I'm not trying to move in on you—I can check into a hotel later, if...." 

Mulder smiled. "No, you can stay. Why don't you... ?" He reached out, stopped in confusion, then reached again for Krycek's bag. "Here, I'll put it in the other room." 

Krycek gave up his bag, and Mulder disappeared with it for a moment. His face was as pink as his tee-shirt as he emerged from the bedroom—where later they'd lie, and touch each other's bodies, and sleep wrapped around each other. Krycek felt his own face heat. He wanted to step forward and put his arms around Mulder—and damn the arm that couldn't feel the body pressed against it—but he hesitated. It was too soon. If they were ever going to stop feeling awkward with each other, they would have to slow down and talk to each other. 

"Are you hungry?" Mulder asked. 

God. He hadn't eaten since breakfast; and though he hadn't given it a thought all day, his stomach was suddenly painfully empty. "Yeah. I'm starving." 

"Me too. Let's go out." 

  
There was something comfortable, and even familiar, in the routine of finding a place to eat, settling in, and ordering. For all that they were both men who'd eat whatever was put in front of them and never complain, they still managed to argue about their choices, and cheerfully insult each other's tastes. Years ago and better times for them both, it had been an almost daily ritual. By the time they had chosen a secluded booth in a quiet neighborhood restaurant, sent the waitress away with their orders, and sat back with their glasses of beer, they had both relaxed and lost their initial hesitation. 

"So," Mulder began. He paused for a sip of beer, licked the foam from his lips. "You've been out of D.C." 

Krycek nodded. "New York." It was a big city; there was no harm in telling Mulder. 

"I don't suppose there's any point asking what you were doing there." 

"Working." Krycek shrugged. "It was boring. Meetings, mostly. Errands. Nothing important." Which was mostly true, if evasive. But Mulder surely wouldn't expect him to tell him everything. Still.... "I think I should tell you—my patron knows I was here. He knows I'm seeing you. I didn't tell him; he's got better sources than I thought. But he won't interfere, and he won't tell the others." 

Mulder frowned. "He knows... everything?" 

"Well, he doesn't know we were sleeping together." Or so Krycek sincerely hoped, although it wasn't out of the question. Which brought up another point—"When did you last have your apartment swept?" 

Mulder took another sip of beer, then smiled. "Right after you left. It's clean. I have it done regularly; I haven't found a bug since last spring." 

Krycek nodded, returning the smile. It didn't bother him a bit that Mulder had had his apartment checked for surveillance devices after Krycek had been there last. In fact, he'd have been disappointed if Mulder hadn't. "Good. Well, then, I think we can assume that no one knows what went on behind closed doors. He probably has someone watching your building, though, and I was spotted going in. Or else I was being followed—he knew I'd been to Russia. He might have been checking the flights from Russia for me." 

"Should I be worried?" 

"You should always be worried," Krycek responded promptly. "But no more than usual, I don't think. I told him it was personal, and to leave it alone. I think he will. For the most part." 

Mulder nodded, slowly. It wasn't good news, but there was a faint, grim smile on his face. Krycek wondered about it for a moment, then suddenly realized—he'd told Mulder something private, something he hadn't expected to be told, and he liked it. A little curl of pleasure warmed Krycek's belly, and he fought down a smile. Mulder went on, "I don't suppose you want to tell me who this patron of yours is?" 

The curl of pleasure teased. It felt so good, it was very tempting to go right on telling Mulder things. Maybe he shouldn't, but damn it, his patron knew about Mulder—it was only fair that Mulder should know about him. "You've met him, actually. Englishman, very proper. He's told me to call him Smith, but that's not his real name, of course." 

Mulder nodded again. "Yeah, I know who he is. You're working for him now? I like him better than that cigarette-smoking bastard, anyway." 

"I'm working with him," Krycek corrected. Then he smiled. "I like him better, too." 

"So. Do you know how long you'll be staying in D.C. this time?" 

Krycek shrugged. "I'm not sure. I hope for a while." He paused a moment. "Look, I didn't know... if it's a problem for me to call you at work...." 

Mulder's face turned pink. "No, it's no problem." 

"I didn't want to leave a message—I wanted to make sure you were going to be around." 

"I know. You just caught me by surprise, that's all. I couldn't really talk." 

"Was Scully there?" 

"Yeah." Mulder's flush deepened. Krycek felt a sudden urge to lean across the table and lick Mulder's face. His own cheeks grew hot. 

Mulder seemed to consider for a moment, then continued, "She knew it was you." He smiled as he said it; a small, private smile, gentle and full of affection. Krycek knew that smile well from the old days, when they were partners, whenever Mulder had talked about Scully: how she questioned his theories, insisted on following procedures, rolled her eyes at his wild leaps of intuition. There would be an undercurrent of: _She knows me. She doesn't let me get away with anything. She takes care of me._

Krycek had been jealous then, and he felt a little pang of jealousy now. Not sexual jealousy—he knew Mulder didn't sleep with her, although sometimes it seemed astonishing that he didn't. He was envious of their closeness, their acceptance of each other's idiosyncrasies, their faith and their trust. Had Krycek ever had a friend like that? Not since he was a child, anyway. Betrayal had come early to his world. 

"You've told her about us?" 

Mulder shrugged, a little defensively. "Not everything—I just told her you were going to be around, sometimes. I told her we were trying to work things out." 

Trying to work things out: that had a nice sound to it. "I don't mind what you tell her. She's your friend, tell her whatever you want to." He had to cringe a little, inwardly, over the unintentionally sharp tone of those last words. 

Mulder nodded, thoughtfully. "It will be okay. She doesn't necessarily like it, but she'll leave it alone." 

Krycek hid in his beer, thankful when the food arrived a few moments later. They ate a while in silence; both, it seemed, glad for the respite. There was so much to talk about, so much to work through—and even as they fumbled at the small, mundane details any new relationship must deal with, the much greater problems they must inevitably face loomed. Krycek was at once nervously eager to jump directly to the heart of the matter and get it over with—to say, _Look, I killed your father, and I'm sorry, but I can't do anything about it, will you ever be able to get past that or shall I just leave now?_ —and reluctant ever to mention what must surely put an end to this beautiful illusion. After all, if Mulder could bury it so easily and act as if it had never happened, why should Krycek be so keen on bringing it up? And, realistically, he knew that it would be better to wait. Let them find a little peace together first, build the beginnings of something that would be worth suffering all that pain for. They might as easily find themselves breaking up over the cap on the toothpaste tube, or late-night television, or some other completely ordinary bone of contention, and never need to worry about the deeper, more painful differences. 

At last, they pushed back their plates, and faced each other across the table again. Mulder forced a brief, tight smile, then began to play with his napkin, and spoke without looking up. "I've been thinking about what you said last time. About not always being on the bottom." 

Krycek shifted, a sudden heat in his groin. "Yeah?" 

"I don't want to always... I mean, if you want to switch...." 

Krycek sucked in air. Well, of course he wanted to. The very thought of Mulder on his belly, legs spread, ass in the air and available for the taking brought a rush to Krycek's groin that nearly had him ready to come on the spot. "I want to," Krycek said, a little breathlessly. But Mulder looked more nervous than willing. Obviously offering out of some sense of obligation, not out of desire. "Not yet. It's too soon, I think. We should wait." 

Mulder couldn't help the look of relief on his face, though he tried valiantly to hide it. "I don't want you feel... that you're not getting what you want." 

Krycek smiled ruefully. It was sweet of Mulder, if foolish, to offer himself this way. Perhaps it was his way of trying to make things better between them. Or some sort of macho need to prove he could take it as well as dish it out. It would be a disaster, of course, Krycek had no doubt. Mulder couldn't have much experience with receptive anal sex—and even if he did, he was clearly far too nervous about the prospect of taking it up the ass from someone who'd lately been his worst enemy to be able to relax and enjoy it. He was much more comfortable being in control, at least for now. Which was just fine by Krycek—he preferred being fucked, and while he certainly wouldn't mind trading places now and then, he wasn't going to feel deprived if they didn't. 

"It's okay, Mulder, really. I don't want it that badly. I like being fucked. —You know that first time, when I was here before? When you were a little rough? Called me names and ordered me around? I liked that." 

"Yeah?" Mulder was smiling now, biting his lip. His chest rose and fell under the pale rose cotton of his tee-shirt, and his deep hazel eyes had gone dark. "You like it rough, huh?" 

"Yeah. You could be a lot rougher than that, too, if you wanted to." 

Mulder looked as if someone had given him a present. "Did it just get hot in here?" 

Krycek grinned at him. "Let's get the check." 

  
The ride back to Mulder's apartment was accomplished in heated silence. Krycek tried to stay collected, to think carefully about what was happening, but his mind had become a red haze of lust. They were going to fuck. Soon. They were going to Mulder's apartment in order to fuck. They'd slept together before, but Krycek had never known for sure until the moment Mulder's hands were on him that it was really going to happen. This was different, this wild tease—to sit here beside Mulder and know: to feel that knowledge like a hot stroke up his cock. It was overwhelming and electric. 

It seemed to take forever, but at last they were at the door to Mulder's apartment. Mulder stepped aside to usher Krycek in, a hard smile on his face, hot delight with a sinister hint of cruelty. It made Krycek hesitate for a moment, a slight shiver of fear trickling down his spine. Warning voices whispered at the back of his mind: this man's cruelty was not to be taken lightly. Determinedly, he shut them up. The shiver of fear settled in his cock, making it jump painfully against the rough denim of his jeans. He stepped past Mulder through the short hallway into the living room. 

The hard muzzle of Mulder's gun jabbed him in the small of his back. Long fingers dug into the back of his neck. He stopped short, the shiver of fear turning into a cold splash in his gut. He let his arms fall loosely to his sides, hands spread, surrendering. His voice caught in his throat. "Mulder... ?" 

The gun pressed into him, harder. Then Mulder shifted his weight and shoved, forcing Krycek to take two heavy steps across the room. He fell against Mulder's desk, bent over, with Mulder lying heavily on his back, gun now pressed into the side of his neck. He grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. Sick horror turned his belly to water. He cursed himself viciously. He'd been caught thinking with his dick, and he'd blown it big time. So Mulder had been faking it all along, lulling Krycek into a false sense of security, biding his time until he could take his revenge right when it would hurt the most. And it had worked just as he'd intended—Krycek had been caught off guard, his gun uselessly packed away in the other room, and no way to escape. It was a mistake he was very likely to die for. 

Mulder's crotch ground into his butt, and he heard Mulder chuckle wetly in his ear. "So you like it rough," Mulder whispered. "I'm so glad to hear it." The muzzle of the gun trailed down Krycek's neck, over his shoulder, to press into his side. The fingers at the back of his neck scraped roughly through his hair, then slapped the back of his head. 

Krycek let out a little moan. Confusion mingled with his horror, a curl of hope threading liquidly through his nerve endings. His cock throbbed. Could it all be a game? Was this Mulder's idea of playing rough? Or if not, could it be turned to Krycek's advantage? 

Mulder showed no sign of relaxing his hold on the weapon. With his other hand, he reached around to the front of Krycek's jeans. The heel of his hand pressed into Krycek's stomach, while his fingers worked at the waistband of Krycek's jeans, and his hot mouth was on the back of Krycek's neck, sucking, biting his shoulder. 

Krycek remained crushed against the desk, braced on his elbows, with Mulder heavy on his back, hips grinding into his buttocks. His whole body was throbbing now, dissolving, surrendering—but he clung desperately to what was left of his senses and tried to think. Surely Mulder would be distracted, too, if he kept this up. Just a moment's hesitation, the slightest relaxing of his guard, and Krycek would make his move.... 

Mulder had unbuttoned Krycek's jeans, and was now slowly pulling the zipper down, a tantalizing stroke over the hard bulge of his cock. Krycek swallowed hard, and leaned back, working his butt against Mulder's crotch. He could feel the stiff throb of Mulder's cock through both of their jeans. Mulder's breath was ragged in his ear, his movements sharp and heavy with passion. The pressure of the gun in Krycek's side was beginning to relax. Soon, Krycek thought. He began to gather himself for the desperate attempt.... 

  
Abruptly, the gun fell away from his side. Mulder released him and stepped back with a chagrined laugh. "Aw, fuck." 

Krycek felt his stomach lurch, heart pounding with adrenaline and the shock of hope. He glanced over his shoulder. "What?" 

Mulder was standing with his arms at his sides, gun hanging loosely in his hand, a foolish look on his face. "I don't have the lube and condoms." 

Krycek laughed, a short, coughing sound, giddy with relief. Suddenly, his knees went weak, and he lowered his head into his arms on Mulder's desk. It was a game. Only a game. Not betrayal and death after all, but only the blood haze of lust. 

And now that Krycek knew it was a game, he didn't want it to stop. "Order me to stay like this while you get the stuff," he urged. "Tell me you'll punish me if I don't." Even in his own mouth, the words made him hard. 

There was a long pause. Krycek remained as he was, waiting. Would Mulder want to play it this way, with only his orders, and not a gun, to keep Krycek in his place? The moment stretched out, heady and pure. 

At last, Mulder stepped forward and covered Krycek's body with his own, enveloping him. The gun had been put away; Mulder's two arms slid around him, one beneath his chest, the other under the waistband of his briefs to cup and squeeze his aching balls. He nuzzled Krycek's ear, then bit his neck. "Don't move," he ordered, his voice a slick murmur in Krycek's ear. Then he moved back, took hold of the waistband of Krycek's jeans and briefs, and with one sharp motion, pulled them down over his buttocks. 

Krycek gasped as the cool currents of air hit his naked butt. His fingers scrabbled at the edge of the desk. The sudden exposure was shocking, exhilarating. He let himself shift helplessly, feeling the vulnerability of his position as a stiff jolt to his cock. He could feel the eager drops oozing from its tip. 

Mulder stood back. "Don't move," he repeated, the smoky delight evident in his voice. "If you do, you'll be punished." He punctuated his order with a sharp slap to Krycek's right buttock. Krycek jumped and squealed. He heard Mulder chuckle. "I may just punish you anyway." 

Krycek felt the heat grow in his face. His fingers curled into a fist. "Yes, Sir," he answered, his voice muffled against his arms. Then he heard Mulder move away to the bedroom. 

  
Krycek waited. Bent over Mulder's desk, jeans down around his thighs, bare butt outthrust and ready for the taking. He breathed raggedly into the sleeve of his jacket, waiting. 

At last he heard Mulder come up behind him; quietly, but not so quietly that Krycek couldn't hear the soft pad of his footsteps, or the hot sighs of his breath. He felt himself tense up, his buttocks squeeze together, his balls tighten against his body in anticipation. 

Fingers slipped between his buttocks, cool and wet. Krycek moaned and gripped the desk, hips making small thrusts, desperate for the feel of Mulder's hands on him. His cock twitched between his legs, responding to every slight motion of the fingers pressing into him, working him, lubricating him. He pushed back, trying to impale himself further onto Mulder's fingers. His breath seemed to burn in his lungs. 

"Hold still," Mulder admonished. Krycek forced himself to obey, thigh muscles tightening in frustration. "Hold still," Mulder said again, his voice sleek and velvety with pleasure. "Scum-sucking worthless bastard. Hold still and take what's coming to you." 

Krycek's gut tightened. Waves of pleasure crashed over him: the searing heat in his cock, the fingers deep in his ass, the lube trickling down like tears over his balls. He managed a deep-throated, "Yeah...," that turned into a breathless squeak when Mulder slapped his butt with his other hand. "Do it to me, Mulder." 

Mulder fucked him with his fingers, slowly but deeply, the full length of his long, strong fingers thrusting in and out of Krycek's ass. "Filthy slut," Mulder said softly, almost wonderingly, rolling the words around in his mouth like fine wine. "I'm going to fuck you raw." 

Mulder paused for a moment, two fingers shoved all the way into him. Then he withdrew, slowly, with exquisite deliberation. Krycek could feel the slight tremble of the fingers inside him. He could hear Mulder's heavy breathing, almost feel the hot breath on his back. Then Mulder stepped away, and Krycek could hear the small motions as he prepared himself: jeans unzipping, condom package opening, more lube being spread over Mulder's cock. 

Mulder stepped forward again. One hand gripped Krycek's hip. The other guided his cock between Krycek's buttocks. 

Krycek clenched his teeth, trying hold still as Mulder entered him. He could not hold back the hot, whimpering noises in his throat. He pounded the desktop with his fist, nearly mad with need. 

Mulder worked his cock into him, inexorably, until his full length filled Krycek's ass. He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, then pulled almost all the way out and thrust back with a single, demanding stroke. Sobs of grateful laughter tore at Krycek's throat, as Mulder settled in and fucked him hard, crushing his thighs against the desk, their balls slapping together. Krycek knew he would have bruises the next day. It hurt like hell, and it was sheer heaven. 

Finally Mulder leaned over Krycek's back, wrapped his arms around Krycek's chest and pulled him upright, all the while continuing the hard, deep strokes of his cock into Krycek's ass. He took Krycek's cock in his hand and began to pump it. Krycek groaned and squirmed and came with a shout, spurting all over the front of Mulder's desk. Mulder thrust even harder, faster, until he fell forward, collapsing with Krycek down onto the desk, and came, laughing in Krycek's ear. 

  
It was too uncomfortable to stay that way for long,tangled in a heap on top of Mulder's desk. So, still watery-kneed and wobbly, they pulled themselves to their feet and stumbled their way to the couch. Somehow Krycek ended up on Mulder's right, with his plastic arm between them. He groaned, but didn't feel like getting up again. Mulder giggled at his side. 

"What?" 

"You came all over my desk." He seemed rather pleased about it. 

"You were aiming," Krycek pointed out. Then he sighed. "I'll clean it up." He pushed himself upright and headed for the kitchen to find a sponge and some paper towels, pulling up his jeans along the way. 

When he returned to the living room, he found Mulder sprawled bonelessly across the couch, looking lazy and sated, hazel eyes creamy with satisfaction, languidly pulling on his still half-hard cock. Krycek stopped, staring. God, he was beautiful. A vision of pure sex. Someone ought to paint a portrait of him, just like that. 

"Don't just stand there," Mulder ordered smoothly, a pleased smile on his full mouth. "Get to work, boy." 

Krycek felt his face go red, as a hot lick of arousal tickled his cock. Not enough to be ready for more play just yet, but enough to give him a sensual glow. He took a deep breath, answered, "Yes, Sir," and went to kneel before the desk. I've created a monster, Krycek thought, grinning to himself. Mulder was enjoying his little adventure in dominance; let him have his fun. 

But when Krycek had finished cleaning up his mess, and turned back to Mulder, he found his erstwhile master sitting up again, jeans zipped, face pink with embarrassment. So Krycek smiled, went back to the kitchen to discard the towels and toss the sponge in the sink, then returned to settle himself at Mulder's side and give him a solid hug. 

"That was fun," Mulder said, a somewhat tentative lilt in his voice. 

"Yes, it was," Krycek replied firmly. At least, it ended up being fun. His nerves were still a little raw from having had a gun shoved in his back. "You know, you scared the shit out of me at first." 

"Yeah?" Mulder grinned. 

"I thought you were going to kill me." 

There was a pause while Krycek's words sunk in. The grin slowly faded. "You're serious." 

"I wasn't really sure it was a game until you stopped to go get the lube. I was just getting ready to make a break for it when you backed off." 

Mulder shook his head, confusion giving way to distress. "I can't believe you thought I was really going to hurt you." 

Krycek could only stare. That wondrous Mulder denial: it was almost charming, in a thick-headed sort of way. Krycek could still count the bruises Mulder had given him, the number of times he'd stared down the barrel of Mulder's gun. Could Mulder really believe the past all wiped away and forgotten? 

He could see the acknowledgment of those days reluctantly creep into Mulder's eyes. "Well, all right, but that was before. Things are different now." 

"Are they really, Mulder? The past is still there. We haven't really dealt with any of it." 

Mulder's expression grew hard. "I don't want to talk about that." 

"I know," Krycek said softly. He reached out, tentatively, to stroke Mulder's arm. The muscle was tight and unyielding under his hand. "It's too soon. But some day we're going to have to." 

Mulder shifted, a brief motion of shoulders and knees, with a small noise of frustration. "Why? What's the point? You can't make what happened go away." 

"I know. But we have to find a way to accept it, and get past it." 

Mulder shook his head, mouth pressed into a tight line. "Accept it? That you... ?" He stopped, mouth twisted in barely suppressed fury. "I can't even think about it. I just want to forget it ever happened." 

"Mulder." Krycek shook his head wearily. "Can you honestly tell me you'll ever be able to forget everything that's happened?" 

Mulder was very still. "No. I'll never forget." 

"Well, if you can't forget it, and you won't deal with it, what's the point?" Krycek heard the pain, the desperation, creep into his own voice, and he hated himself for giving way to it, this helpless need for Mulder's forgiveness. "Why go on with this, if you already know it's hopeless?" 

It was too soon. He knew it was too soon. Krycek cursed himself for a fool for continuing to push, when he'd already said it was too soon. Just let it be, let Mulder pretend he'd forgotten all about the past. He was going to push them past the point of no return, and lose whatever chance they had to work things out. 

Mulder stood up, took two agitated strides across the room, then turned to Krycek with fists clenched and eyes like chips of flint. The look on Mulder's face sent a heavy chill down Krycek's spine. He'd seen that look before: after Mulder had found him in Dmitri's hospital room and brought him here to talk. Krycek had hoped to enlist Mulder's help in protecting Dmitri from the forces of the Syndicate, or at least to convince him not to interfere with Krycek's plan to rescue the boy. But Mulder had stalked around the apartment in a fury, unable to listen, almost mad with rage. Finally he had thrown himself on Krycek, kissed him, open-mouthed and hungry—but it had been a cruel hunger, full of black passion and the need to punish, and when he'd raised his arm to strike, Krycek had broken away and left, intending never to come back. 

Now here was that black passion again, all the anger and pain, never far away, just temporarily pushed aside. "I don't know!" Mulder's voice rose, and there was a tremor in it, nearly breaking. "I don't know what else to do. You make me so... crazy, I just don't know what to do. Sometimes I just want...." His fists worked, his knuckles gone white as his fingers dug into his palms, and he spoke in a harsh whisper. "Sometimes I want to rip you to pieces with my bare hands, every last cell of you, until there's nothing left." He stopped, drew a deep, ragged breath. "But I can't. So I fuck you. It's the only thing that makes it at all bearable. It lets me forget, for a little while." 

Krycek found himself standing, heart pounding, sick dismay twisting in his belly. Was that going to be it? Should he give it up and leave? But surely there was more to Mulder's passion than hate and an unfed need to strike out. There was tenderness, too. There was Mulder curled contentedly around him after sex, Mulder rubbing his back when it was sore, Mulder buying him McDonalds' for breakfast. There was caring, too, and it was this that made the hate and anger so difficult for him to bear. Surely, in time, there would be a way to work through it. They wouldn't be here at all if there weren't at least a chance. 

Krycek went up to Mulder, close but not quite touching. "I'm sorry." He said it softly, tentatively, poised to flinch away. But there was no hostile reaction from Mulder, no anger, no rejection. He only stood there, frozen, staring at the floor. 

"I'm sorry I make you feel that way. I wish there were something I could do to change things." Mulder looked at him strangely, eyes wide and shot through with pain, mouth working. It occurred to Krycek that he had never really apologized to Mulder for anything before. He hadn't thought Mulder was ready to hear it. Perhaps now he was. 

Krycek reached out to touch Mulder's cheek, just a light brush of his fingertips down the angular jawline. "I'm sorry," he repeated. 

Suddenly, Mulder pulled him fiercely into his arms, and buried his face in Krycek's neck. Major denial, Krycek thought: Put the hate back in its box and pretend it isn't there. Although, was Krycek himself really any better? So convinced that everything would be all right, if only they sat down and talked about it? 

Never mind. He wrapped his arms around Mulder and held him tight. 

  
Later that night they lay in Mulder's bed, curled around each other in the tangled sheets, sated and drained. They had made love again, slowly this time, carefully, as if they were made out of glass and ready to shatter. They had kissed for what seemed like hours—Krycek's lips were still a little tender, but oh, Mulder's mouth had been so sweet, he just couldn't get enough. 

It was madness, Krycek decided, as he shifted onto his back. Mulder rolled over with him, sliding one knee across Krycek's thighs, and laying his head on Krycek's chest. Mulder's body was warm and velvety-smooth and satisfying next to his. He put his arm around Mulder's shoulders and held him close. —Madness to think that this rapturous sexual haze, no matter how glorious, could overcome the problems between them. 

Then perhaps they were both mad: because here he was, and it seemed he believed it, too. _I came back,_ Krycek thought. _And I'm not going away again._

* * *

Rated NC17 for explicit m/m sex.   
Sequel to _Restitution:_ After Krycek returns from Russia, he and Mulder struggle with their new relationship.   
Mulder and Krycek belong to Chris Carter and 1013. No infringement intended.   
Feedback: [email removed]   
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